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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 

OF  CIVIL  WAR  NOVELS 

PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


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ELISE: 


A  STORY  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR. 


BY  S.  M.  M.  X. 


1896: 
ANGEL  Guardian  Press. 

BOSTON. 


Copyrighted,    1S95, 

BV    THE 

Brothers   of   Charity, 

85  Vernon  Stkeht, 
Boston,  Mass. 


CONTENTS. 


I, 

Regai.ia 

II. 

The  Cave 

III. 

CoXIlDENCE 

IV. 

Relics 

\'. 

Father   Lawrence 

VI. 

The  Bayou     , 

VII. 

Death 

VIII. 

Resurrection 

IX. 

Lucille 

X. 

The  Jesuit 

XI. 

The   Sailor 

XII. 

Missions 

XIII. 

A  Fallen   Star 

XIV. 

The  Confederates 

XV. 

Maum    Rosa 

XVI. 

Miss  Jones 

XVII. 

A  Lost  Sheep    . 

XVIII. 

The   Hospital 

XIX. 

The  Artist 

XX. 

Papa,  at  Last 

XXL 

A  Miracle 

XXII. 

X'eglected  Gardens 

xxiii. 

Home  . 

22 

34 
40 

51 
56 
69 

H 

91 
107 
1 12 
1 21 
130 

H3 

157 
iSi 

197 

204 

222 

231 

238 

246 

2=;8 


532528 


/ID.  m.  /ID. 


WITH    A    GRATEFUI.    HEART 


'Her  cliildren  sliall  ri.se  ui>  and  call    lier 
blessed." 


PREFACE. 

A  WAVE  of  misguided  faith  seems  sweeping  tlie 
world  in  these  hitter  days,  at  a  time  when  all  faith  in 
the  supernatural  is  apparently  dying  out. 

A  half  truth  is  always  more  dangerous  than  a  whole 
lie.  There  is  generally  a  grain  of  truth  to  be  found  in 
all  heresies,  which  only  makes  them  the  more  dreadful. 
Spiritualism,  with  its  vulgar  seances,  table  tipping  and 
silly,  empty  messages  from  the  unseen  world,  is  not  so 
dangerous  a  form  of  heresy  as  that  which  now  holds 
the  minds  of  many  under  the  names  of  Psychology, 
Mind-reading,  Soul-building,  etc.,  etc. 

It  is  with  this  thought  that  we  have  tried  to  show  by 
means  of  a  simple  child's  story  that  our  Holy  Mother 
the  Church  can  satisfy  our  needs  and  longings  for  com- 
munion with  the  unseen  world  around  us,  far  better 
than  any  method  of  man's  invention. 

That  our  Lord  so  bent  Himself  to  the  weakness  of 
our  human  nature,  as  to  do  most  of  His  teaching  through 
stories ;  and  that  there  is  a  need  of  Catholic  books  for 
children,  is  one  excuse  for  writing  one. 

Mt.  St.  Mary's, 
Month  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  1S94. 


CHAPTER  I. 


REGALIA. 

The  Civil  War  had  actual!}-  begun.  The  entire 
country,  from  north  to  south,  was  in  a  ferment  of  ex- 
citement. Sumter  had  been  fired  upon.  Four  oi 
the  states  had  actually  joined  the  Confederacy. 
President  Lincoln  had  issued  a  proclamation,  calling 
for  troops.  There  would  be  no  longer  any  wavering ; 
all  were  called  upon  to  make  their  choice  between 
Union  or  Secession. 

Regalia  was  a  large  plantation,  situated  on  the 
Mississippi  River,  about  thirty  miles  north  of  New 
Orleans.  It  had  been  the  property  of  the  La  Borde 
family  for  many  generations. 

The  last  descendant  of  the  family,  however,  was  a 
daughter,  Elise  La  Borde,  and  she  had  married  M. 
Henri  de  la  Roche,  who  was  the  present  master  of 
the  property,  thus  the  name  of  La  Borde  became 
extinct.  It  was  a  grand  old  place,  and  most  beautiful 
it  looked  on  this  lovely  evening  in  June,  when  our 
story  commences.      The  family  mansion  stood  at  the 


lO  ELISE. 

top  of  a  long  green  lawn  which  sloped  down  in  ter- 
races to  the  river.  The  house  was  of  grey  stone,  with 
large  square  front,  and  wings  on  either  side.  It  had 
a  broad  veranda  running  all  around  it  which  was 
used  as  a  parlor  whenever  the  weather  permitted. 
At  the  front,  facing  the  river,  was  a  large  circular 
driveway  connected  with  the  high  road  by  an  avenue 
shaded  with  large  orange  trees  having  overhanging 
branches  fragrant  with  both  flowers  and  fruit.  The 
entire  plantation  was  protected  from  the  high  road  by 
a  hedge  of  the^^sage  orange,  which  formed  a  thick  im- 
penetrable screen  at  least  eight  feet  high.  From 
the  driveway  in  the  front  were  stone  steps  leading 
down  the  terraces  to  the  boat  landing  on  the  river. 
On  the  terraces  were  arranged  groups  of  ornamental 
trees  and  shrubbery  in  such  a  manner  as  not  to  hide 
the  view  of  the  broad  Mississippi  from  the  veranda. 
On  both  sides  of  the  house,  and  up  to  the  high  road 
behind  the  mansion,  was  the  garden.  Ah  !  how  can 
one  find  words  to  describe  the  beauty  of  a  tropical 
garden.  Its  very  fragrance  made  the  veranda  a 
place  of  too  much  luxury.  Imagine  an  arbor  com- 
pletely covered  with  stephanotis,  with  its  great  waxen 
clusters  of  flowers,  clumps  of  bouvardias  some 
twenty  feet  or  more  in  height,  rose  trees  laden  down 
with  clusters  of  buds  and  blossoms.  In  the  centre 
of  the  garden  was  a  large  fountain  which  consisted 
of  a  group  of  bronze  figures  on  a  round  base  which 
rested  on  four  large  basins,  one  within  the  other,  into 


ELISE.  ir 

which  the  water  was  continually  falling  with  a 
musical  sound.  The  groups  of  shrubbery  were  so 
arranged  that  one  constantly  came  suddenly  upon 
surprises.  Here  a  shrine  to  Our  Blessed  Lady,  there 
one  to  St.  Joseph  —  for  the  family  were  staunch 
Catholics  from  the  beginning  —  beautiful  masses  of 
bloom  completely  hidden,  until  you  came  upon  them 
unawares.  Sufficient  wildness  was  permitted  to  give 
a  certain  charm  to  the  place,  especially  noticeable 
this  year  ;  as,  owing  to  the  uncertainty  of  the  times,  it 
had  been  somewhat  neglected. 

This  entire  property  extended  for  about  three 
miles  along  the  river.  The  master,  like  his  wife,  was 
a  descendant  of  one  of  the  old  French  families  of 
Louisiana.  He  was  in  great  trouble  and  distress  now, 
as  he  stood  there  on  the  veranda  looking  sadly  at 
his  young  wife.  She  was  kissing  "Good  Night"  to  her 
youngest  boys,  twins  of  only  two  years  of  age.  The 
negroes  had  all  left  them,  and  the  plantation  lay  idle. 

M.  de  la  Roche  was  known  as  a  firm  Unionist, 
and  strong  anti-slavery  man ;  although  by  force 
of  circumstances  he  was  obliged  to  own  slaves. 
He  now  knew,  too  well,  that  the  South  would  be  no 
longer  a  safe  home  for  his  family,  and  that  it  would 
be  necessary  to  move  North.  The  only  persons 
who  had  not  deserted  them  in  the  present  trouble 
were  the  French  governess,  the  old  nurse,  Marie, 
and  a  simple-hearted  negro  lad  by  the  name  of 
Jacques. 


12  ELISE. 

These  had  clung  faithfully  to  the  famil)' through  all 
their  troubles,  but  now  even  they  must  go.  The 
master  told  them  that  deeply  as  he  regretted  it,  he 
could  not  afford  to  take  them  North  with  him. 
He  could  only  raise  enough  from  the  estate  to 
carry  his  family,  and  when  North,  he  must  find 
work  to  support  them,  as  he  could  no  longer  look 
for  an  income  from  his  Southern  property.  This 
decision  cost  many  tears  on  both  sides.  Marie 
scouted  the  idea  of  leaving  her  mistress,  and  re- 
fused to  listen  to  any  arguments. 

"Miss  Elise  git  along  widout  me?  Git  along  !  "  and 
she  turned  her  broad  shoulders  shaking  with  laughter 
at  the  bare  idea.  Just  now  she  carried  off  the  babies 
for  the  night,  and  Madame  turned  to  her  husband. 

She  was  a  tiny  little  woman,  with  a  round,  child- 
like form,  and  light  brown  wavy  hair,  done  up  in  a 
simple  knot  at  the  back  of  her  neck,  while  it  escaped 
in  short  curls  round  her  head.  Her  dress  of  light  sea 
green  organdie  muslin,  with  white  crepe  illusion 
ruches  at  the  neck  and  wrist,  made  one  think,  instinc- 
tively of  the  ocean,  and  fresh  salt  breezes.  She 
was  still  a  perfect  child  and  under  the  dominion  of  and 
cared  for  by  old  Marie  as  much  as  any  of  her 
children,  spoiled,  petted,  and  selfish,  as  all  spoiled 
children  are,  and  wholh' unfit  for  the  cares  of  wife 
and  motherhood.  The  plantation  was  hers,  as 
she,  being  an  only  child,  succeeded  to  the  family 
estate. 


ELISE.  13 

At  the  time  of  their  marriage  M.  de  la  Roche 
had  Hstened  to  the  prayers  of  her  old  parents  and  had 
given  up  his  own  cherished  plans  to  manage  the 
estate,  rather  than  separate  them  from  their  daughter. 
After  her  mother's  death  the  entire  care  of  the 
children  fell  upon  Marie.  As  has  before  been  said, 
Madame  was  among  them  a  child  herself.  Now, 
when  her  husband  tried  to  make  her  comprehend 
their  present  condition,  he  was  only  met  with  sobs 
and  tears,  and  he  could  only  console  her  like  the 
children,  by  changing  the  subject.  She  had  firm 
faith  in  his  abilities,  and  a  reliance  that  he  would 
bring  them  through  the  storm,  as  he  always  had  done 
heretofore. 

M.  de  la  Roche  had  been  educated  North,  at  a 
Jesuit  college,  in  New  York.  There  he  had  learned 
to  detest  slavery,  and  when  circumstances  had,  as  it 
were,  forced  him  into  the  position  of  a  slave  owner, 
he  accepted  it  with  the  intention  of  striving  with  all 
his  might  to  remedy  the  evil.  He  had  watched  the 
coming  struggle  with  intense  interest,  and  in  spite  of 
the  reproaches  of  his  own  brothers  and  the  entreaties 
of  his  wife,  he  had  openly  showed  his  colors  as  a 
staunch  Unionist  from  the  first.  For  this  reason  he 
was  hated  by  his  neighbors  and  now  that  war  had 
been  proclaimed,  he  well  knew  that  it  would  be 
necessary  to  fly  to  the  North  for  protection.  He 
was  a  tall,  dark,  military  looking  man,  straight  back, 
and  head  well  poised  on  his  shoulders,  dark  hair,  and 


14  ELISE. 

eyes  with  a  sad,  wistful  expression.  It  deepened 
now,  while  he  looked  fondly  on  his  wife,  as  she  turned 
to  him  and  spoke  : 

"What  is  it,  Henri,  now  ?  You  look  so  sad  ;  it  seems 
to  me  you  always  look  sad  now-a-days.  I'm  sure  I 
need  cheering  a  little  in  all  our  troubles." 

"Yes,  Elise,  things  are  becoming  worse  hourly, 
the  sooner  we  leave  the  better.  Are  you  nearly 
ready?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Madame  fretfully. 
"You  know  I  leave  all  those  things  to  Marie,  and 
now  she  has  to  do  all  the  work  of  the  house. 
Mademoiselle  has  been  packing  and  they  leave  me 
all  the  care  of  the  children.  I  never  saw  such 
naughty,  troublesome  children  before  in  my  life.  I 
told  them  I  should  tell  you  of  them.  This  morning 
I  brought  them  out  here.  I  told  Henri  and 
Elise  they  must  study  their  lessons  while  I  amused 
the  twins ;  they  began  so  well,  that  I  got  entirely 
absorbed  in  my  book  and  forgot  all  about  them. 
When  I  finally  remembered  them"  and  looked  up  to 
see  what  they  were  doing,  not  a  child  was  to  be  seen. 
I  went  into  the  house  to  look,  and  smelt  something 
burning.  I  ran  up  to  the  nursery ;  when  I  opened 
the  door  I  was  met  by  a  great  blast  of  such  hot  air 
that  I  thought  the  house  was  on  fire.  I  screamed 
and  Mademoiselle  ran  to  the  rescue,  and  we  went  in. 
Such  a  sight,  and  oh  !  such  a  smell.  There  was  a 
roaring  fire  in  the    big  sheet  iron  stove,  on  top  of 


ELISE.  15 

which  were  four  pairs  of  little  shoes  burned  to  a 
cinder,  and  smelling  dreadfully.  An  ink  bottle  had 
been  tipped  over  on  the  floor,  and  the  water  pitcher 
emptied  on  it  in  order  to  wash  it  up.  The  twins 
were  dipping  the  bathing  sponges  in  the  ink  and 
water,  after  which  they  scrubbed  themselves  and 
the  furniture,  with  perfect  impartiality.  The  two 
older  ones  had  vanished  entirely  leaving  this  note  on 
my  desk." 

Madame  was  half  laughing  and  half  crying  by  this 
time,  but  the  grave,  careworn  expression  on  her  hus- 
band's face  only  deepened,  as  he  read  the    following 
epistle  : 
Dear  Littel  Marmy  : 

We  got  our  chews  wetted  and  put  them  on  the 
stuv  to  dry.      Eye  billed  the  fire  all  my  loneself. 

Ure  luvin  son, 

Henri, 

"Marie  was  as  cross  as  a  bear,  and  wanted  to  put 
them  in  bed  for  punishment,  and  Mademoiselle  was 
so  horrified  at  the  note  that  she  wanted  to  make  them 
write  a  composition,  but  I  said  we  had  trouble 
enough  already,  and  I  would  not  have  them  punished. 
But  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  with 
them ;  you  have  no  idea  how  mischievous  they  are. 
Last  night  the  Lavalles  called  here,  and  you  know 
how  fastidious  and  refined  they  are?  What  should 
Henri  do  but  shout  from  the  top  of  the  staircase  to 
me  in  the  parlor  entertaining  them : 


l6  ELISE. 

"Oh,  little  marmy  !  little  marni)- !  come  up  here 
quick,  I've  found  a  bug  in  my  bed." 

"Mademoiselle  went  up  at  once  and  found  a  large 
June  beetle  there. 

"The  Lavalles  tried  to  laugh  as  if  it  were  funny  but 
I  could  see  that  they  were  utterly  disgusted.  You 
remember  last  Sunday  when  we  were  speaking  of 
the  music  at  High  Mass  and  I  said  what  a  pity  it 
was  that  Mr.  Brown's  voice  was  so  prominent,  and 
ofif  the  key,  that  it  spoiled  it  all?  Well,  he  called 
yesterday  and,  I  think,  was  coming  to  offer  his  assis- 
tance if  you  needed  it,  but  both  children  were  on  the. 
veranda,  and  the.  moment  he  appeared  they  shout- 
ed : 

"  'Oh,  Mr.  Brown  !  my  mamma  sa3's  you  spoil  all 
the  music  at  mass,  you  sing  so  awful.' 

"I  ran  out  in  dismay  to  stop  them.  He  made 
the  stififest  kind  of  a  bow  and  said  :  'As  you  were 
not  in,  he  would  call  again,'  and  his  face  was  as 
red  as  red  could  be.      I  could  only  say  : 

"  'Oh!  oo  !  oo!'  in  my  disma}'-,  and   Henri  said: 

"  'You  did,  mamma,  you  know  you  did.' 

"After  he  had  gone  I  called  them  in  and  told 
them  that  they  were  making  us  so  much  trouble 
with  their  mischievous  talk,  that  we  should  have  to 
go  away,  and  give  up  Regalia  altogether,  and  the 
dear  little  things  really  got  crying  when  they  saw 
me  cry,  and  clung  around  me  promising  all  sorts 
of  things " 


ELISE.  1/ 

Here  she  was  interrupted  by  the  pair  in  question, 
racing  round  the  corner  of  the  house,  full  tilt, 
followed  more  slowly  by  Jacques,  who  was  grin- 
ning as  usual.  Elise,  our  heroine,  was  the  older  of 
the  two,  by  two  years.  She  was  very  like  her 
father ;  a  tall,  slender  brunette,  with  long,  black 
hair,  in  two  heavy  braids  hanging  down  her  back. 
With  crimson  cheeks,  and  flashing  eyes,  she  dashed 
up  the  steps.  Henri  was  of  a  much  more  studious 
and  quiet  nature.  He  stooped  a  little.  His  grey- 
blue  eyes  were  dreamy  and  full  of  kindliness.  He 
ran  up  the  steps  after  his  sister  who  began  : 

"Oh  papa  !  Henri  is  an  awful  naughty  boy.  He 
built  a  fire  right  in  the  middle  of  the  long  barn 
floor." 

Elise  whose  guilty  conscience  made  her  feel  that 
trouble  was  brewing,  thought  it  wise  to  "take  the 
initiative. 

"Well!"  said  Henri,  slowly,  "you  see  we  were 
playing  soldiers,  and  that  was  the  camp  fire.  I 
didn't  suppose  it  would  do  any  harm.  Jacques  says 
soldiers  always  have  a  camp  fire.  I  did  not 
think  it  would  burn  the  barn,  papa,  until 
Jacques  ran  in  and  put  it  out.  Elise  wanted  to  light 
it,  and  when  I  wouldn't  let  her,  she  bit  me  hard  as 
ever  she  could." 

The  father  looked  at  Elise,  who,  conscious  of 
having  been  dishonorable  in  the  matter,  blushed 
scarlet,  but  replied  : 


l8  ELISE. 

"Oh  !  oo !  oo !  papa,  I  did  not,  my  mouth  was 
open,  and  he  ran  right  into  it!" 

By  this  time  Jacques  was  doubhng  up  with  sup- 
pressed laughter,  and  Madame  turned  her  back  and 
looked  intently  into  the  house.  The  master  looked 
very  sadly  at  the  pair  and  said : 

"That  will  do,  children,  you  may  go  upstairs  to 
Marie." 

The  pair  without  another  word,  walked  up  the 
stairs  much  more  subdued  by  the  evident  trouble  of 
their  father  than  the  fear  of  punishment. 

"Well,  Jacques  !"  said  the  master  turning  to  him 
suddenly. 

"Please,  massa,  M.  Gabriel  sen'  dis  yer  letter,  and 
will    come    berry    soon    hisself,    and    massa  —  dey 

say, "  here  he  stood  embarrassed,  first  on  one 

foot,  and  then  on  the  other. 

"Well,  speak  out !" 

"Dey  all  say  Mosby  and  his  boys  are  comin', 
and  we'd  better  skip." 

The  poor  boy  grew  pale  with  terror,  and  glanced 
over  his  shoulders,  as  if  already  he  was  in  the 
clutches  of  the  enemy. 

"Massa,"  said  the  boy  hesitatingly,  "dere  is  a  cave 
ober  dere  on  de  hill,  where  we  kin  hide." 

"A  cave!"  said  the  master.  "What  cave?  how 
is  it  I  have  never  heard  of  it  before?" 

Jacques  hung  his  head  in  silence.  The  fact  was 
that  in  the  extremity  of  the  moment,  he    had  re- 


ELISE.  19 

vealed  a  secret  hiding  place  of  the  runaway  slav^es. 
M.  de  la  Roche  little  knew  that  on  his  estate  there 
was  a  large  cave  well  provisioned  and  furnished 
with  all  that  was  needful  for  a  siege,  and  that  it  had 
been  a  favorite  rendezvous  of  the  negroes  for  many 
years  past.  Seeing,  however,  the  embarrassment 
of  the  boy,  he  said  kindly  : 

"Never  mind,  my  boy;  I  think  we  are  not  quite 
driven  to  that  extremity  as  yet,  but  you  may  get 
out  the  cart  and  carry  the  trunks.  Mademoiselle 
will  show  you  down  to  the  boat  landing.  You  had 
better  go  with  us  down  to  New  Orleans,  and  I  will 
find  a  home  for  you  somewhere." 

"Thanks,  massa,"  said  Jacques  with  a  very  un- 
happy face,  touching  his  apology  for  a  hat,  and  the 
master  went  into  the  house  with  his  letter. 

While  he  was  reading  this,  let  us  follow  the  older 
children  upstairs  to  the  nursery.  It  was  evident 
that  better  discipline  prevailed  here,  for  they  entered 
softly,  and  were  quite  obedient  to  the  directions  of 
old  Marie,  as  she  prepared  them  for  the  night. 
Henri  knelt  for  a  long  prayer,  in  which  he  audibly, 
and  carefully  brought  in  all  the  relatives  on  both 
sides  of  the  family.  Elise  stood  by  the  window 
looking  out  rather  soberly,  but  in  deep  thought,  not 
seeing  anything.  At  last  she  drew  from  her  bosom  a 
gold  medal  suspended  from  a  slender  chain  around 
her  neck.  She  gazed  lovingly  at  it,  with  her  eyes 
full  of  tears,  and  then  kissed  it  fondly. 


20  ELISE. 

"Mother  Mary,"  she  murmured  softly,  "I  was 
mean  and  naughty  to  accuse  my  little  brother  and 
papa  was  ashamed  of  me.  Sweet  Mother,  pray  for 
your  child  that  she  may  never  do  anything  to  make 
papa  ashamed  again." 

Here  her  attention  was  called  to  her  brother's 
delinquencies,  and  she  exclaimed,  as  he  rose  from  his 
knees : 

"There,  Henri  de  la  Roche,  }'0u  never  said  :  'God 
bless  Aunt  Marguerite  !'  " 

"  Oh,  well  !  "  said  Henri  stoutly,  "  I'm  going  ta 
write  to  her." 

"  Be  quiet,  children,"  said  Marie,  and  soon  they 
were  lost  in  the  quiet,  peaceful  sleep  of  childhood. 

Shortly  afterward,  the  master  of  the  house  entered 
the  nursery.  He  went  to  the  beds  of  the  little 
sleepers  and  gazed  on  them  tenderly,  but  oh  !  so 
mournfully.  How  sweetly  and  tranquilly  they  slept : 
little  they  dreamed  that  this  was  the  last  night  of 
their  happy  family  life.  Little  even  does  their  father 
know  of  the  cross  to  which  they  are  going  or  how 
could  he  bear  it.  Let  us  thank  God  for  mercifully 
screening  the  future  from  us.  "We  are  always 
traveling  toward  a  cross." 

"  Well,  Marie,"  said  the  master  after  a  moment  of 
silence,  "we  must  leave  to-night;    are  you  ready?" 

"Let  us  bress  de  Lord,  massa  !  I'se  alius  ready; 
but  jus'  wait  a  bit  and  de  whole  ting  will  blow  ober." 

"No,  old  Marie,  there  is  no  hope  of  that,  and  no 


ELISE.  21 

time  to  be  lost.  I  wish  we  had  left  yesterday;  but 
do  not  let  your  mistress  know  that  I  am  anxious. 
I  will  let  you  know  when  the  steamer  comes  in 
sight.  Then  you  n^ay  dress  the  children,  and  bring 
them  down  to  the  landing.  Mademoiselle  will  look 
after  Henri  and  Elise,  and  I  know  you  will  take  the 
best  care  of  your  babies.  We  can  trust  you  fully, 
and  I  don't  know  what  we  shall  do  without  you. 
When  we  get  to  New  Orleans,  you  will  find  }-our 
sister." 

"Bress  your  heart,  massa !  I  don't  want  no  sister; 
ef  you  and  Miss  Elise  goes  North,  old  Marie  goes  too, 
sure  enuf,  but  I  tinks  it's  all  foolin'  atter  all." 

"Well,  Marie,  God  grant  you  may  prove  right, 
and  if  we  come  back  to  our  own  again,  we  shall 
claim  you  as  one  of  the  family." 

"To  be  shore,  massa,"  said  the  old  woman  curtesy- 
ing  respectfully,  and  then  turned  busily  to  her  work. 

All  through  the  night  they  toiled,  packing  and 
sending  off  necessary  articles,  hiding  others,  till  they 
should  return  again  when  the  war  should  be  ov^er. 

The  estate  under  the  present  regime  was  almost 
■worthless.  M.  de  la  Roche  was  indeed  poor  and 
destitute,  with  wife  and  little  ones  dependent  on  him, 
yet  he  was  in  peace,  for  he  had  learned  to  say  with 
St.  Ignatius: 

"Give  me  Thy  grace  and  Thy  love,  I  desire  nothing 
more." 


CHAPTER  II. 


THE   CAVE. 


In  the  gray  light  of  the  early  dawn,  before  the  sun 
was  fairly  up,  the  family  were  assembled  at  the 
riverside.  The  broad  river  was  wrapped  in  an  un- 
comfortable mist  which,  however,  was  beginning  to 
lift.  The  steamer  lay  puffing  and  blowing,  in  the 
middle  of  the  bay,  formed  by  a  curve  of  the  river, 
on  which  Regalia  lay  and  was  dimly  visible.  The 
little  group  of  passengers  seemed  to  feel  the  chill, 
and  that  nameless  discomfort  which  attacks  our  sen- 
sitive bodies  at  that  dull,  grey  morning  hour.  At 
least  to  the  older  ones  it  added  another  shade  of  dis- 
comfort to  their  downcast  hearts.  But  the  children 
— God  bless  them,  nothing  saddens  them — they 
were  capering  with  delight  at  the  thought  of  a 
journey.  Out  in  the  river  the  steamer  lay  waiting 
for  passengers  as  was  the  way  of  Southern  steamers 
and  cars  in  those  days  ;  stopping  to  take  up  freight, 
and  passengers,  wherever,  and  at  whatever  time  they 
found  them.  A  large  flat-bottomed  lighter  was  al- 
ready unloading  baggage  to  the  hold  of  the  steamer,. 


ELISE.  25 

while  a  boat  of  lighter  build,  manned  by  four  sailors 
and  an  officer,  was  waiting  at  the  boat-landing  for 
passengers. 

M.  de  la  Roche  helped  his  wife  who,  as  she  step- 
ped in,  instinctively  grasped  Henri's  arm.  The  boy, 
young  as  he  was,  put  his  arm  around,  as  if 
to  protect  her,  and  stepped  proudly  into  the  boat 
with  her,  then  came  old  Marie  with  the  two  babies. 
The  officer  then  said  it  was  enough  and  that  he  would 
return  for  the  rest.  M.  de  la  Roche  decided  to  wait 
and  be  the  last  to  leave.  At  this  decision,  his  wife 
shrieked  convulsively,  and  demanded  to  be  put 
ashore. 

"Better  come  now,  sir,"  said  the  officer  impatiently, 
and  the  master  telling  Mademoiselle  he  would  be 
back  for  them  directly,  stepped  into  the  boat,  and 
they  were  off. 

Elise  was  not  very  well  pleased  at  this,  but  she  res- 
olutely put  back  the  rising  complaint,  and  forced  a 
bright  smile  for  her  beloved  father  as  he  looked 
back  anxiously  at  her.  How  little  did  they  dream  of 
the  weary  length  oftime  before  their  eyes  would 
meet  again. 

Hardly  had  the  boat  reached  half  the  distance  be- 
tween the  landing  and  the  steamer,  when  shouts  were 
heard,  and  M.  de  la  Roche,  turning  his  head,  was 
frozen  with  horror,  to  see  a  band  of  mounted 
guerillas  riding  down  to  the  boat-house,  aiming 
their  rifles  at  the  boat  as  they  rode. 


24  ELISE. 

Mademoiselle,  Elise  and  Jacques  were  standing  a 
little  to  one  side  of  the  landing,  under  the  shelter  of 
an  old  willow,  and  were  not  seen  by  the  guerillas. 

"Hi,  Marm'selle  ! "  said  Jacques  in  a  hoarse  whisper, 
""Run!    run   for  your  life!" 

He  caught  Elise  by  the  wrist,  and.  Mademoi- 
selle catching  the  other,  they  ran  along  the  bank  of 
the  river,  shaded  from  view  by  the  friendly 
embankment,  and  willows.  As  to  those  on  the 
boat,  the  sailors  rowed  them  quickly  around  the 
steamer,  and  regardless  ot  the  entreaties  of  the  dis- 
tracted father,  hauled  their  passengers  and  the  boat 
quickly  on  board,  and  then  steamed  off  down  the 
river,  leaving  the  poor  fugitives  behind.  They  were 
not  discovered  by  the  guerillas,  who  thought  all  the 
family  were  on  board  the  steamer,  and  after  they  had 
fired  a  few  shots  after  the  retreating  boat,  turned  to 
pillage  and  burn  the  fair  mansion  which  had  been  the 
pride  and  glory  of  the  country  for  nearly  a  century. 

In  the  meantime  Mademoiselle  and  Jacques  ran 
quickly  along  the  shore  of  the  river,  dragging  and 
pulling  poor  little  Elise  between  them.  The  child, 
wholly  unable  to  comprehend  what  had  happened, 
tried  to  pull  herself  away  and  finally  began  to 
scream  indignantly. 

"Hush  !  hush  !  lile  Missy,"  hissed  Jacques,  "dem 
bad  men  will  cotch  us." 

"For  the  love  of  God,  Elise,  be  quiet  I "  gasped 
the  terrified  governess. 


ELISE.  25 

Awed  and  silenced  by  the  terror  of  her  companions 
EHse  submitted.  They  ran  quickly  along  the  shore 
until  they  came  to  a  little  stream  which  emptied  it- 
self into  the  river  from  the  hills ;  then  they  turned 
and  followed  up  the  brook.  This  little  stream  flowed 
down  through  a  deep  gorge  between  the  hills  and  the 
gorge  was  so  narrow  that  their  only  path  was  the 
bed  of  the  brook.  Up  this  they  fled,  jumping  from 
one  stone  to  another,  the  rocky  sides  of  the  gorge 
rising  to  the  height  of  twenty  or  thirty  feet. 

The  stones  in  the  bed  of  the  brook  were  covered 
with  moss,  and  ver}'  slippery,  and  our  poor  refugees 
stumbled,  slipped  and  staggered  on,  until  finally 
poor  little  Elise  fell  flat  in  the  stream.  Jacques  soon 
had  her  out  again,  and  Mademoiselle  again  taking 
her  other  hand,  they  scrambled  together  up  the  gorge 
until  they  arrived  breathless  and  panting  at  the  top. 
Here  they  found  a  natural  basin  worn  out  of  the 
rock  by  a  waterfall  of  some  twelve  feet  in  height. 
This  had  always  been  a  favorite  resort  of  the  family, 
and  a  more  beautiful  spot  could  hardly  be  imagined. 
The  rocky  sides,  rising  almost  perpendicularly  around 
it,  were  covered  by  wild  roses  and  other  creeping 
vines.  M.  de  la  Roche  had  delighted  in  laying  it 
out  as  a  grotto  of  our  "Lady  of  Lourdes."  Without 
disturbing  the  natural  beauty  of  the  place,  rustic  seats 
had  been  built  about  the  basin,  and  on  a  projection 
of  the  rock  in  the  centre  of  the  falls  was  a  lifelike 
statue  of  the  Blessed  Mother,  with  the  falling  water 


26  ELISE. 

behind  it,  like  a  fine  lace  drapery.  The  bottom  of 
the  basin  was  paved  with  many  colored  stones.  The 
silence,  the  coolness,  and  the  music  of  the  water 
falling  into  the  basin  were  most  grateful  to  the  poor 
panting  refugees.  But  there  were  also  other  resources 
in  the  place,  quite  unknown  to  the  family,  yet  quite 
well  known  to  the  negroes  of  the  various  plantations 
around  the  country.  Jacques  hesitated  a  moment 
before  revealing  the  secret,  but  a  distant  shout  and 
cracking  of  the  bushes  decided  him.  Catching  up 
Elise  in  his  arms  he  said  in  a  hoarse  whisper: 

"Follow  me,  Marm'selle,  and  do  just  what  I 
do." 

He  then  sprang  up  on  the  ledge  of  the  rock,  close 
to  the  fall,  and  catching  hold  of  a  projecting  root 
with  one  hand,  and  holding  Elise  tightly  in  his  other 
arm,  he  deliberately  swung  himself  with  Elise  on 
his  arm  right  through  the  falls  and  out  of  sight, 
Mademoiselle  was  struck  dumb  with  amazement. 
She  knew  not  what  to  do,  but  her  charge  had  dis 
appeared,  and  she  must  try  to  follow  at  any  cost. 
The  distant  shouts  now  sounding  nearer,  nerved  her 
to  the  trial,  and  she  followed  Jacques'  example. 
There  was  the  stunning  blow  of  the  water  taking 
away  all  her  breath  for  an  instant,  and  then  she 
found  herself  standing  on  a  dark  \\et  platform  of  rock 
under  one  side  of  the  fall,  which  fell  like  a  curtain 
behind  her.  Jacques  stood  beside  her  still  holding 
poor  h^lise.     The  child  seemed   only  lialf  conscious 


ELISE.  27 

now,  and  her  little  head  lay  on  Jacques'  shoulder. 
She  was  moaning  faintly,  stunned  from  the  fright, 
exhaustion,  and  water.  Jacques  laid  her  in  Made- 
moiselle's arms  and  placed  his  shoulder  against  a  little 
door  in  the  rock  formed  by  upright  logs.  It  swung 
back,  and  with  a  sigh  of  relief  he  went  through, 
followed  by  Mademoiselle,  supporting  Elise. 

Mademoiselle  uttered  an  exclamation  of  astonish- 
ment at  the  sight  before  her,  but  the  child  as  she  re- 
gained her  consciousness  began  to  scream  violentl}% 
to  the  alarm  of  Mademoiselle  and  Jacques,  who 
feared  she  would  discover  their  hiding  place  to  the 
guerillas. 

"Papa  I  papa  I"  she  screamed,  "I  want  my  papa. 
How  dare  you  take  me  from  him,  and  bring  me  up 
to  this  dreadful  place?" 

Mademoiselle  in  vain  tried  to  reason  with  her ;  she 
threw  herself  on  the  floor  of  the  cave  in  which  they 
now  found  themselves,  and  only  screamed  the  louder. 
At  last  Mademoiselle  kneeling  at  her  side,  drew 
from  her  dress  a  crucifix  and  pressed  it  to  the  child's 
lips.  The  effect  was  instantaneous,  Elise  immediate- 
ly became  quiet  and  only  clung  to  Mademoiselle 
trembling  all  over  with  cold  and  excitement. 

"  Oh,  why  are  we  here?"  she  exclaimed,  "why 
did  we  not  go  with  the  others  ?" 

Mademoiselle  drew  her  down  on  an  old  log  and 
explained  to  her  why  they  had  to  run  away,  and  bade 
her  listen  to  the  shouts  of  the  wicked  men,  who,  if 


28  ELISE. 

they  had  caught  her,  would  have  carried  her  away 
from  her  papa  forever,  and  that  now  the  only  way  by 
which  she  could  hope  to  rejoin  him,  was  by  quiet- 
ness and  obedience. 

"Oh,  no  !  Oh,  no  !"  sobbed  the  poor  child,  "I 
cannot  stay  here,  I  am  afraid ;  indeed,  indeed,  I 
can't,"  and  as  she  looked  around  her,  her  teeth 
chattered  together  and  she  shook  from  head  to  foot. 

"  'They  wandered  in  deserts  and  caves  of  the  earth, 
of  whom  the  world  was  not  worthy,'"  said  the  gover- 
ness impressiv^ely.  Weeping  silently,  Elise  clung  to 
her.  "  Do  you  remember,  dear,  our  last  catechism 
lesson  when,  as  we  were  talking  of  the  saints,  you 
said  you  would  like  to  suffer  something  for  God? 
See  I  He  has  heard  your  prayer.  He  has  given  you 
the  chance,  and  at  the  same  time  provided  you  with 
a  safe  shelter  from  the  wicked." 

"I  forgot  that,"  murmured  Elise.  "I  will  be  good, 
indeed  I  will." 

In  the  meantime,  dear  reader,  we  have  nearly 
forgotten  to  tell  you  what  kind  of-  a  place  it  was,  in 
w'hich  our  fugitives  had  found  a  refuge.  It  was  a  large 
ca\'e  in  a  hill  which  overlooked  the  plantation.  The 
side  of  the  hill  looking  towards  the  mansion  formed 
a  precipice,  which  was  covered  with  undergrowth 
and  vines  and  this  made  one  side  of  the  cave. 

The  entrance  under  the  fall  was  planned  by  the 
negroes  and  had  entirely  escaped  the  observation  of 
the  whites,  but  it  had  been  a  safe  refuge  for  the  run- 


ELISE.  29 

away  slaves,  and  general  rendezvous  for  the  negroes 
for  many  generations.  In  the  side  toward  the  preci- 
pice were  many  large  fissures,  which  acted  as 
windows  to  the  cave,  letting  in  air  and  light.  They 
were  screened  from  observation  from  the  outside  by 
vines  and  shrubs.  The  floor  of  the  cave  was  of  pure 
white  sand.  A  fireplace, -partly  natural,  and  partly 
contrived  by  the  negroes,  was  at  one  end,  and  while 
Mademoiselle  was  trying  to  quiet  Elise,  Jacques  had 
busied  himself  in  lighting  a  roaring  fire.  Over  their 
heads  were  poles  placed  across  the  roof  of  the  cave 
and  on  these  were  hung  some  ham,  bacon,  and  dried 
fruit.  There  were  also  some  soldier's  blankets  thrown 
carelessly  in  a  corner.  A  wooden  box,  whose  lid  was 
hung  on  leather  hinges,  formed  a  cupboard  which 
contained  coffee,  sugar,  and  other  sundries.  Some 
attempts  at  rough  seats  and  tables  showed  that  it  had 
been  lately  occupied. 

Jacques  fastened  up  a  blanket  across  a  corner  by 
the  fire  as  a  screen,  and  Mademoiselle  with  a  "Deo 
Gratias"  drew  the  little  girl  behind  it,  took  off  her  wet 
clothing,  and  then  wrapped  her  in  a  dry  woolen 
blanket.  She  made  a  little  mouth  of  disgust  at  this 
but  was  so  thoroughly  chilled  as  to  be  glad  of  its 
grateful  warmth.  Jacques  soon  had  some  hot  coffee, 
which,  with  some  pilot  bread  and  fried,  bacon  formed 
a  substantial  breakfast,  which  they  greatly  needed. 
Jacques  carried  his  to  the  side  of  the  cave  where  he 
could  look  down  through  the  fissures  on  the  mansion 


30  p:lise. 

as  he  ate,  and  when  he  had  finished,  he  came  back, 
and  stood  gazing  into  the  fire  in  a  desponding 
attitude,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"I  dunno  what  wese  gwine  to  do,"  said  he  to 
Mademoiselle.  "Dem  villyans  is  boun'  to  stay  while 
dere  is  anything  at  all  lef  to  eat,  and  Massa  bees 
waitin'  for  us  and  we  cawn't  stay  here  forebber ;  now 
kin  we?" 

"We  cannot  stay  here  long,  surel}',"  said  Madem- 
oiselle, "and  M.dela  Roche  must  be  terribly  anxious. 
Don't  you  think  we  could  steal  out  after  dark  and  in 
some  way  get  to  New  Orleans?" 

"Dere's  de  small  boat  if  dem  villyans  doesn't  take 
her,"  said  Jacques.  "Wese  could  row  down  to 
N'Orleans  in  a  couple  ob  days  I  reckon,"  said  Jacques 
looking  very  wise  and  important. 

"Well,  Jacques,  I  must  think  a  little  first,"  said  the 
governess. 

Mademoiselle  had  been  but  a  few  months  in  the 
family,  she  knew  none  of  the  people  on  the  neighbor- 
ing plantations,  and  had  had  but  little  experience  of 
life.  Too  much  novel  reading  had  made  her  ro- 
mantic and  unpractical.  The  thought  that  she  could 
take  refuge  in  the  neighboring  plantations  did  not 
seem  to  occur  to  her  although  the  South  is  justly 
celebrated  for  its  hospitality,  and  the  weaker  sex 
sure  of  protection  amongst  her  chivalrous  sons. 
The  plan  she  afterwards  suggested  to  Jacques  had  the 
attraction  of  romance,  and  really  seemed  to  her  the 


ELISE.  31 

wisest,  and  the  onl}-  plan,  in  fact,  which  seemed  to 
her  practicable.  She  told  the  children  that  they 
would  disguise  themselves  as  negroes,  and  in  the 
early  morning  while  the  soldiers  were'  sleeping, 
they  would  steal  out,  take  the  small  boat  and  start 
dow'n  the  river  for  New  Orleans  after  their  friends. 
"Perhaps,"  she  said,  "we  shall  meet  them  returning 
for  us." 

The  children  were  delighted.  The  idea  of  the 
masquerade,  and  that  of  going  down  the  river  to- 
gether on  an  unknown  voyage  of  exploration  as  it 
were,  made  them  forget  all  their  troubles,  and  put 
them  in  the  highest  of  spirits.  Jacques  assisted  the 
governess  in  spreading  and  drying  the  wet  clothes 
before  the  fire,  and  also  kept  up  a  roaring  fire  in  the 
fireplace,  for  the  cave  was  rather  damp  and  chilly. 
Elise,  who  was  wrapped  like  a  mummy  in  her 
blanket,  kept  him  in  a  perpetual  giggle,  wnth  her 
bright,  quick  ways  and  speeches. 

"Oh  Jacques  !'•'  she  said,  "Isn't  it  just  like  a  story, 
real  adventures  you  knows  like  our  books.  If  Henri 
had  onh'  stayed  too.  I  wonder  what  he  did  when 
the}'  fired  those  guns ;  the  poor  little  marmie  must 
have  been  nearly  frightened  to  death.  And  old 
Marie,  imagine  how  she  must  have  scolded,  and 
then  she  would  be  so  sorry  to  leave  us  behind." 

She  was  silent  at  the  thought  of  the  father's 
anxiety,  and  looked  forward  with  loving  impatience 
to  clasping  her  arms  round  his   neck,  and  bringing 


32  ELISE. 

the  light  to  his  eyes  once  more.  The  rest  of  the 
day  was  spent  in  trying  to  restore  their  traveling 
dress  to  respectability,  in  making  the  finest  dinner 
that  the  circumstances  afforded,  and  in  exploring 
the  mysteries  of  the  cave.  As  it  became  dark. 
Mademoiselle  insisted  on  her  pupil  retiring  to  rest  as 
usual.  Elise  consented  very  reluctantly,  and  was 
soon  in  a  sound  sleep  on  a  heap  of  pine  boughs, 
covered  with  a  blanket. 

"Now,  Marm'selle,"  said  Jacques  in  an  excited 
whisper,  when  he  saw  Elise  was  fairly  off.  "Mammy 
Thomson  won't  gib  nottin'  t'all  to  me  unless  youse 
goes  wid  me,  and  den  we  git  de  does,  and  start  fust 
ting  in  de  mawnin'." 

Mademoiselle  consented  with  a  sinking  heart,  she 
saw  no  other  way.  The  way  Jacques  led  her  out, 
was  different  from  the  one  by  which  they  entered. 
It  led  through  one  of  the  great  fissures  of  the  rock. 
After  climbing  through,  following  Jacques,  she  found 
herself  on  a  narrow  precipitous  path,  which  she 
would  have  supposed  it  impossible  to  attempt  at 
another  time.  The  darkness  now  proved  merciful, 
and  concealed  from  her  the  dangers  of  the  way. 
Following  closely  on  Jacques'  footsteps  they  at  last 
reached  the  bottom  of  the  cliff  in  safety  and  were 
soon  at  Mammy  Thomson's  door. 

Old  Mammy  Thomson  had  not  followed  in  the 
stampede  of  the  negroes.  Her  master  was  the 
owner  of  a  large  neighboring  plantation  and  a  well 


ELISE.  35 

known  Confederate  leader ;  this  prevented  her 
being  annoyed  by  guerillas.  Her  little  hut  was 
built  under  the  overhanging  bank  of  the  river. 

"De  Lord  have  marcey!"  she  exclaimed  as  she 
opened  the  door  and  stood  gazing  out  on  them,  lamp 
in  hand,  "I  tought  you  been  and  goneNorf, "  and  then 
with  a  frightened  look  she  added  :  "Whar's  de  massa 
an'  de  missis?"  in  the  meantime,  pulling  Mademo- 
iselle and  Jacques  in  hurriedly  and  shutting  the  door. 
"Dem  soldiers  are  up  to  de  house,  rarin'  and  tarin' 
awful  to  hear." 

Mademoiselle  soon  explained  matters  and  begged 
for  a  disguise.  "De  pore  chile,  shore  I'se  proud  to 
gib  yer  anything  I  hab." 

She  ran  to  a  wooden  chest  at  one  side  of  her  hut 
and  began  to  pull  out  all  her  Sunday  clothes.  Made- 
moiselle had  some  difficulty  in  persuading  her  that 
these  would  not  do,  and  she  finally  let  them  depart 
with  a  couple  of  old  calico  wrappers,  sun  bonnets- 
and  some  gay  bandanna  handkerchiefs.  Mammy 
accompanied  them  to  the  door  with  loud  exclama- 
tions of  pity  and  dismay,  and  with  strongest 
asservations  of  being  as  secret  as  the  grave,  which 
promises  she  kept  only  too  well  as  the  sequel  will 
show. 


CHAPTER  III. 


CONFIDENCE. 


Poor  little  Elise  awoke  with  a  start  from  her  bed 
■of  moss  and  boughs.  At  first  she  thought  herself  at 
home  in  the  nurser}',  but  the  strange  feeling  of  the  bed 
drew  her  attention.  She  put  out  her  hand  and  felt 
the  coarse  blanket  round  her.  Gradually  the  events 
of  the  preceding  day  came  back  to  her  mind. 

Where  was  she  now?  Where  was  Mademoiselle? 
A  bat  skimmed  oround  the  cave  and  brushed  her 
cheek. 

She  screamed  a  little  at  this,  and  then  called; 
"Mademoiselle  !" 

There  was  no  response. 

"Mademoiselle,  dear  Mademoiselle,"  she  cried 
plaintively,  and  timidl}',  "Here's  Elise." 

Only  the  awful  silence  and  darkness !  Was  she 
then  alone  in  this  dreadful  place?  A  great  terror 
seized  her.  The  terrible  darkness  seemed  pressing 
her  down.  She  had  never  before  been  alone  in  the 
dark,  and  for  an  instant  her  reason  seemed  to  leave 


ELISE.  35 

her.  Springing  from  the  bed  she  ran  shrieking 
through  the  cave  but  was  brought  to  a  stop  by 
running  with  such  violence  against  its  rocky  side 
that  she  was  thrown  stunned  and  breathless  to  the 
floor.  As  she  recovered  her  senses  and  looked  up 
she  saw  a  flicker  on  the  roof  of  the  cave,  from  the 
fire  of  the  guerillas  outside,  which  caught  her 
attention,  and  she  remembered  the  danger  of  making 
a  noise,  which  might  betra\-  the  hiding  place  to 
them. 

Shivering  and  wringing  her  hands,  she  rose  on  her 
knees,  and  moaned  aloud  : 

"Oh  !  what  shall  I  do?  what  shall  I  do?" 

As  she  glanced  out  the  opening,  through  which 
the  fire  flickered,  she  saw  a  solitary  star  shining  down 
on  her,  and  as  she  gazed,  she  felt  a  sweet  peace  steal 
into  her  soul,  quieting  her  fears  and  excitement. 

"Sweet  Mother,  Oh !  Sweet  Mother,  pray  for 
me,"  she  cried  fervently,  and  folding  her  hands 
together  she  repeated  the  '"Our  Father"  from  the 
bottom  of  her  heart,  and  immediately  she  heard  the 
interior  call  to  confidence. 

"If  papa  or  mamma,  or  even  Henri  were  here," 
she  said  to  herself,  "you  would  not  be  afraid,  and 
have  you  not  the  Elder  Brother  in  your  heart,  and 
your  Guardian  Angel  at  your  side,  Elise?  If  I 
could  only  see,  and  feel  you,  dear  angel,  I  would  be  so 
glad,  but  I  know,  just  the  same,  that  you  are  here 
taking  care  of  me.     I  will  not  be  afraid." 


36  ELISE. 

Drawing  again  her  medal  from  her  bosom  she 
kissed  it.  murmuring:    "Be  thou  a  mother  to  me." 

A  great  happiness  and  content  tilled  her  little 
heart  and  she  laid  her  head  against  the  rock  where 
she  could  watch  the  star. 

When  Mademoiselle  and  Jacques  returned,  they 
found  her  there  sleeping  tranquilly  on  the  floor  of 
the  cave.  The}^  lifted  her,  without  her  waking, 
and  laid  her  again  on  the  bed  of  moss. 

Without  her  faith,  there  is  no  doubt  that  the 
child  would  have  received  a  severe  nervous  shock 
of  which  she  would  have  felt  the  consequences  for 
the  rest  of  her  life  or  perhaps  have  lost  her  reason. 
Her  precious  life  had  been  so  carefully  sheltered, 
her  highly  excitable,  and  naturally  imaginative 
temperament  rendered  her  wholly  unfit  to  bear 
such  a  terrible  strain  on  nerves  and  courage.  But 
her  faith,  and  the  consciousness  of  the  unseen 
world  about  her,  were  so  real  and  vivid,  that  she  had 
not  the  slightest  doubt  of  the  presence,  the  love  and 
protection  of  God,  and  the  angels  and  saints.  They 
were  as  real  to  her  as  the  members  of  her  home 
family.  She  had  been  most  carefully  taught, 
through  means  of  the  sacraments,  that  "it  is  of 
faith  that  God  dwells  in  the  innermost  heart  of  man," 
and,  child  as  she  was,  she  had  learned  to  seek  and 
converse  with  Ilim  there.  Also,  that  "we  are 
surrounded  by  a  great  cloud  of  witnesses,''  and  that 
precisely  as  with  her  friends  on  earth,  so  could  she 


ELISE.  37 

•find  comfort  and  aid,  by  an  appeal  to  the  great 
company  of  the  "Church  Triumphant."  Conse- 
quently, she  had  not  only  escaped  unscathed  from 
this  trial,  but  also  her  faith  was  strengthened  and 
purified,  and  her  whole  soul  elevated  to  a  higher 
point  than   before. 

"Pore  lile  Missy, "as  he  assisted  Mademoiselle  to 
lift  her,  "Ef  I  was  lef  hyar  alone  I'd  be  mos'  skeared 
to  def." 

"Of  what  w^ould  you  be  afraid?"  said  Madem- 
oiselle.    "There  is  nothing  here  to  hurt  you." 

"I'se  be  afeard  of  ghostesses,  wen  I'se  in  de  dark,' 
said  the  lad  glancing  out  at  an  opening  in  order  to 
reassure  himself.  "Once  I  saw  one  truly,  Marm'- 
selle." 

"Nonsense,  Jacques,"  was  the  response. 

"Tru's  I'se  bawn,  Marm'selle.  I  was  libbin'  den 
wid  Boss  Ray  nor  on  dat  cotton  pickin's  twenty 
miles  back  fum  h3'ar  an'  in  de  time  ob  de  pickin' 
he'se  used  to  hire  a  lot  ob  cullered  fellers  fum  de 
odder  plantations,  an'  dey  all  sleep  under  de  shed. 
I'se  a  lile  feller  den,  an'  lib  wid  de  odder  chilluns 
long  wid  Marm  Nance  who  brung  us  up.  I  was 
mighty  tickled  wen  de  obberseer  said  I  was  big 
enough  to  run  errands  fer  'im  an'  de  men,  an'  I  mus' 
join  de  gang,  but  I  soon  foun'  t'was  no  fun.  Run- 
ning all  de  day  in  de  hot  sun  made  me  awful  sick, 
so  I  crept  into  my  bunk  soon  as  we  was  let  off. 
I    went    to    sleep    right    away,   but    pretty    soon    I 


38  ETJSE. 

was  woke  up  by  an  awful  voice  and  it  kep"  a  callin' 
out : 

"  'Jacques,  Jacques.*  I  looks  up,  and  dere  share's 
I'se  bawn  was  a  great  big  shinin'  face  wid  a  grinnin' 
mouf  as  big  as  my  head,  full  ob  big  teeth,  big  as  my 
fum.  I'se  hid  my  head  under  de  blanket  but  'twas 
no  use  ;  it  came  up  right  side  ob  me,  and  said  wid  a 
big  screech :  " 

"  'Jacques,  Jacques,  I  wants  your  lungs  and 
libber  !  I'se  gwine  to  eat  >'our  heart  out.'  Wid  dat  I 
gabe  one  yell  and  runs  for  Marm  Nance  :  and  wen 
I'se  got  inter  her  cabin,  I  fell  down  dead.  She  was 
awful  good  to  me  and  wen  next  day  de  obberseer 
cum  wid  a  big  strap,  and  say  'I  was  onl\-  shamming,' 
she  shet  de  door  in  he  face  and  says  'I  was  too  sick 
an'  shouldn't  go  wid  him,  an  dat's  all  about  it.'  " 

"But  Jacques,"  said  Mademoiselle,  "that  was  not 
a  ghost  only  some  bad  men  with  a  'Jack  O  Lantern' 
who  wanted  to  scare  you." 

"So  Marm  Nance  say,  but  Idunno,"  said  the  boy 
mysteriously.  "Wen  de  obberseer  go  way,  I'se 
feared  he'd  make  me  go  an'  I  cut  out  de  back  door, 
and  down  by  de  big  gate,  where  dcy  cawn't  fin'  me, 
an'  by-em-by  Massa  Henri  and  de  Mistis  come 
ridin'  by  on  horseback.  Oh  !  dey  did  look  fine  !  an' 
wen  Mistis  saw  me  she  stop,  and  den  Massa 
Henri  he  stop  too,  and  dey  ask,  'wat's  de  matter  ob 
me?' an'  I'se  dat  sassy  dat  I  up  an'  tells  em  all  about 
it,  an  de  Mistis  she  look  awful  sorr\-,  an'  she  sav  : 


ELISE.  39 

"  'Oh,  Henri !  and  he  is  just  the  age  of  our  lad,' 
an'  den  dey  talks  a  lile  an'  den  dey  turns  an'  rides  up 
to  de  house.  When  dey  comes  back  agin  de  Mistis 
smile  on  me  like  an  angel  an'  she  say  : 

"  'You'se  gwine  to  be  our  boy  now  fer  we'se  bought 
you  an'  you  can  come  ober  an'  lib  wid  us  at 
Regalia.' 

"I  tried  to  put  on  my  manners  an'  tank  her 
kindly  but  fust  ting  I  knew  I  bust  right  out  cryin' 
like  a  big  baby  an'  dey  rides  away.  I  ran  up  an' 
tell  Aunt  Nance  and  she's  glad  too,  an'  she  say  I 
better  be  off  before  dat  obberseer  come  agin  an'  she 
gib  me  a  big  hunk  of  corncake  to  put  in  my  pocket 
an"  start  off.  I  walks  all  day  an'  wen  de  night  come 
I  got  hyar  an'  de  Mistis  say  she  awful  glad  I  come 
to  Regalia  an'  you  know  de  res',  Marm'selle,  how  I 
goes  to  catechism  class  and  learns  to  read  an'  spell 
jes  like  de  wite  chilluns  and  ebberybody's  good  an" 
fore  de  Lord  I'll  work  till  I  die  for  Marse  Henri  an' 
de  Mistis."" 

Here  Jacques  made  a  sudden  plunge  to  the  other 
end  of  the  cave  and  Mademoiselle  was  soon  reassured 
of  his  sleep  by  the  sound  of  his  snoring. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

RELICS. 

ElLSE  woke  the  next  morning  very  early,  it  wa.s 
so  early  that  she  could  hardly  see  across  the  cave 
through  the  dim  light  of  the  morning.  Madem- 
oiselle and  Jacques  had  wakened  her  by  their  move- 
ments in  stirring  about  the  cave.  They  were  already 
at  work,  rolling  up  the  clothing  in  tight  compact 
parcels,  which  they  covered  and  tied  up  in  gay 
bandanna  handkerchiefs. 

"Oh  Mademoiselle!"  said  Elise  sitting  up,  as  she 
recalled  her  fright  of  the  previous  night.  "Where 
were  you  last  night?  I  called,  and  called,  but  you 
did  not  answer,"  and  she  looked  at  her  reproach- 
fully, her  eyes  filling  with  tears  at  the  memory  of 
her  friend's  desertion. 

Mademoiselle  stopped  her  work,  and  with  a  smile 
crossed  the  cave  and  sat  down  by  the  child's  side, 
and  putting  her  arm  around  her  looked  down  in  her 
face  with  a  glance  full  of  love  and  pity.  The  gover- 
ness had  atypical  French  face.     Very  thin,  with  a 


ELISE.  41 

dark  clear  complexion,  an  aquiline  nose  and  black 
flashing  eyes.  Her  eyes,  combined  with  a  very 
bright  intelligent  expression,  were  the  only  features 
which  redeemed  her  face  from  great  plainness. 
She  was  slight  and  erect  in  form,  full  of  energ}-  and 
decision  in  all  her  movements,  and'  as  she  was 
French,  "it  goes  without  saying"  that  her  clothing, 
and  wardrobe  were  always  in  perfect  taste 
and  fitness.  She  was  fond  of  children,  and  always 
succeeded  in  winning  their  hearts,  and  in  conse- 
quence was  a  good  teacher,  imparting  to  her  pupils 
her  own  good  principles  of  solid  virtue  and  honor. 
The  slight  shade  of  down  on  her  upper  lip,  covered 
an  exceedingly  sweet  smile,  and  seemed  only  to  add 
strength  to  her  character. 

"My  darling,"  she  said,  "I  could  not  bear  to  leave 
you,  but  it  was  necessary  that  I  should  go  with 
Jacques  to  old  Mammy  Thomson's  to  get  something 
for  us  to  wear,  which  would  hide  us  away  from  the 
wicked  men.  If  we  are  to  get  awa}-  and  find  papa, 
we  must  put  on  these  things  and  go  quick I3'  before 
the  bad  men  wake  up."  As  she  spoke  she  held  up 
the  wrapper. 

"Wear  that  dirty  thing,"  shrieked  Elise.  "That 
old  wrapper  !    I  will  never  put  that  on." 

Mademoiselle  said  nothing,  but  began  to  put  on 
her  own  disguise,  and  the  children  were  soon  shout- 
ing with  lau":hter  to  see  the  trim  Frenchwoman  in 
a  slovenly  bright  red  wrapper,  and  a  pink  calico  sun- 


42  ELISE. 

bonnet  which  came  far  over  her  face.  EHse  picked 
up  the  despised  wrapper,  and  looked  at  it  again,  it 
was  of  dark  blue  calico,  and  reall}^  quite  clean. 
The  sunbonnet  provided  for  her  was  also  of  calico, 
and  bright  yellow. 

"At  any  rate  they've  been  washed  since  an}^  one 
wore  them,"  she  said  doubtfully  to  herself,  and 
then  in  a  low  tone  :  "  '  They  wander  in  sheep  skins 
and  goat  skins  being  in  want,  and  distress.'  You're 
a  proud  thing,  Elise,  I  hope  the  da}-  may  not 
come  when  you  will  be  glad  to  get  an  old  wrapper. 
I  had  much  rather  have  a  respectable  sheep 
skin  though,"  she  added,  as  with  a  comical 
glance  at  Jacques  she  thrust  her  arms  into  the 
blue  wrapper. 

After  she  had  finished  they  all  knelt  for  their 
morning  offering,  and  ended  with  a  fervent  "Pater" 
and  "Ave"  for  protection,  both  for  thcmseh'es,  and 
the  dear  ones,  and  that  they  might  meet  again  in 
safety.  Then  they  arose,  and  after  a  hasty  meal 
from  the  remains  of  yesterday's  provisions,  left  the 
cave. 

Jacques  had  already  carried  the  bundles  down  to 
the  boat  and  now  returned.  He  kept  tight  hold  of 
Elise  in  going  down  the  face  of  the  precipice  and,  at 
last,  with  many  a  hair-breadth  escape  from  a  slip 
which  would  have  proved  fatal,  they  reached  the 
bottom  in  safety.  When  they  reached  the  boat,  the 
broad   river  was  sparkling   in  the  clear  light   of  the 


ELISE.  45 

morning,  and  all  nature  seemed  to  speak  of  hope 
and  success  for  their  journey. 

Mademoiselle  entered  the  boat,  closely  followed 
by  Elise  ;  they  sat  down  together  in  the  stern,  and 
Mademoiselle  wrapped  her  traveling  shawl  around 
them  both,  for  the  morning  was  chilly.  Jacques  gave 
the  boat  a  vigorous  push,  and  jumping  in  himself^ 
they  were  afloat  on  the  great  Mississippi. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Elise,  after  they  had  floated 
some  time  in  silence  down  the  river.  "I  wish  you 
would  tell  us  about  your  relics  now,  3'ou  said  you 
would  some  time,  last  Sunday,  didn't  she  Jacques?" 

"I  dunno,"  said  Jacques  looking  rather  sheepishly. 
He  would  quite  as  soon  have  excused  her  from  the 
task. 

"Oh  I  I  remember,"  said  Elise  severely  you  were 
not  there,  "and  you  stay  away  very  often,  Jacques, 
you  are  not  a  very  good  boy,  and  sometimes  make 
Henri  naughty  too." 

"Don't  neither,"  said  Jacques  sullenly. 

"Where  were  you  at  confession  last  time?"  said 
his  inexorable  tormentor. 

"Please,  lile  Missy,  didn't  go  las'  time,"  said 
Jacques  in  some  confusion,  "Was  off  on  possum 
hunt." 

"That  will  do  Elise,"  said  Mademoiselle.  "I 
will  show  you  the  relics,  and  we  will  talk  of  the 
saints,  and  beg  of  them  to  obtain  for  us  favor  and 
success  on  our  journey." 


44  ELISE. 

Drawing  a  little  satin  bag  from  her  satchel,  she 
showed  them  a  little  silver  reliquary. 

"This  one  is  from  St.  Vincent  de  Paul,"  said 
she. 

Elise  took  it,  and  kissed  it  reverently. 

"Tell  me  what  you  remember  of  him  Elise?" 
said  Mademoiselle. 

"Oh  I  I  can  remember  about  him,"  said  Elise 
brightly.  "He  was  a  poor  boy  brought  up  on  a 
farm.  When  a  young  man,  he  was  taken  captive 
by  some  pirates,  they  were  Mahomedans  and  they 
sold  him  as  a  slave.  You  said  his  troubles  made 
him  a  saint,  now  we  are  in  trouble  too,  do  you 
think,  perhaps,  we  shall  be  saints  Mademoiselle?" 

"  If  we  use  our  troubles  rightl}-,  and  correspond 
faithfully  with  the  grace  of  God,"  said  Mademoiselle 
her  eyes  filling  with  tears. 

"Mighty  big  change  fer  some  of  us,"  said  Jacques 
under  his  breath. 

Elise  glanced  at  him  scornfull}',  and  then  went 
on  with  her  story  : 

"He  was  sold  from  one  master  ro  another,  and 
had  many  sorrows,  and  humiliations.  He  always 
remembered  the  Sacred  Heart  of  Jesus  and  was 
always  talking  to  Him  in  his  heart  about  His  cross 
and  passion  till  at  last  he  became  like  Him  ;  loving, 
humble,  and  patient." 

Elise  paused  as  she  remembered  the  scenes  her 
quick  and  naughty  temper  had  caused.     "I  shall 


ELISE.  45 

never  be  like  that,"  she  sighed,  "but  I'm  glad  now 
that  we  are  wearing  the  clothes  of  a  slave,  it  is  like 
Him.  Oh  I  I  like  to  wear  them  now  and  to  be 
homeless  and  a  wanderer." 

Mademoiselle  smiled  atlhe  little  girl's  enthusiasm, 
and  pressed  her  hand. 

"Let  me  see,"  the  child  continued,  "He  was  at 
last  sold  to  an  apostate  ;  and  his  wife,  who  was  a 
Mahomedan  became  converted  by  hearing  St.  Vin- 
cent sing  hymns.  She  asked  the  saint  to  tell 
her  of  his  faith,  and  then  persuaded  her  husband  to 
return  to  his  religion.  After  their  conversion,  his 
master  and  his  family  took  St.  Vincent  with  them 
and  they  crossed  the  sea  in  a  little  boat,  and  came 
to  Rome ;  that  too  was  like  us,  wasn't  it  Madem- 
oiselle?" 

"Yes,  dear;  and  may  God  grant  us  a  safe  and 
prosperous  journey  like  theirs?"  said  the  governess 
fervently. 

"He  afterwards  founded  the  Sisters  of  Charity^ 
the  kind  that  wear  the  great,  big,  white  flipperty- 
flaps  about  their  heads." 

"What  grace  did  he  obtain  for  his  troubles?'" 
said  Mademoiselle. 

"I — I  don't  quite  remember,  tell  us  once  more," 
said  Elise. 

"Unbroken  peace,  and  serenity,"  answered  Made- 
moiselle, "as  a  little  child  in  its  mother's  arms  cares 
nothing    for  what    is  going   on    around    it,   so   our 


46  ELISE. 

saint  reposing  in  the  love  and  power  of  the  Sacred 
Heart,  became  utterly  indifferent  to  the  things  of 
this  world.  Rising  above  all  trouble  to  do  the  will 
of  his  Master  became  his  only  desire.  Shall  this  be 
so  with  us,  children?" 

Elise  in  response,  kissed  the  relic  again  rev- 
erently. 

Mademoiselle  had  gone  a  little  beyond  her  depth, 
but  she  understood  enough  to  waken  the  glow  of 
love  within  her,  and  her  heart  responded  fervently. 

"Inthestatue  in  the  school  room,"  she  said,"hehas 
some  little  children  clinging  to  his  soutane,  and  two 
in  his  arms." 

*'Yes,"  said  Mademoiselle.  "He  had  a  great  love 
for  children.  He  built  a  home  for  children  whose 
parents  had  forsaken  them." 

"Like  me?"  queried  Elise. 

"God  forbid,  my  child.  You  are  only  separated 
from  yours  by  the  course  of  circumstances  over 
which  they  have  no  control.  You  will  understand 
it  better  vvhen  you  see  them  ;  but  now  let  Jacques 
tell  what  he  remembers  of  St.  Peter  Claver?" 

"I  dunno  nothin'  bout  him,"  said  Jacques  un- 
willingly. 

"Oh  Jacques!"  said  Elise  reproachfull}',  "don't 
you  remember  the  picture  of  the  good  Jesuit  Father, 
holding  the  poor  sick  colored  man  in  his  arms? 
Henri  said  it  was  you,  and  you  got  mad." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Mademoiselle,  "if  you  have 
forgotten   about  it,  we  will  go  over  it  again." 


ELISE.  47 

"About  three  hundred  years  ago,  the  Spaniards 
brought  over  to  this  country  many  shiploads  of 
negroes  to  work  in  the  mines  of  South  America. 
That  was  the  beginning  of  slavery  in  this  country." 

Elise  had  imbibed  all  her  father's  hatred  of 
slavery,  and  began  to  look  interested. 

"The  Indians  had  broken  down  under  their  cruel 
masters,  and  it  was  thought  that  the  negroes  would 
be  stronger.  It  was  in  the  seaport  of  Carthagena, 
our  saint  lived,  in  the  home  of  the  Jesuit  Fathers. 
All  the  saints  have  great  hearts  full  of  love  and 
pity  for  the  poor  and  unfortunate.  The  heart  of 
St.  Peter  Claver  was  touched  by  the  miseries  of 
the  poor  slaves.  The  negroes  were  packed  like 
animals  in  the  crowded  ships ;  they  were  often 
diseased,  died  unbaptized,  knowing  nothing  of  the 
truths  of  our  holy  religion.  When  the  saint  saw 
these  poor  souls,  for  whom  Christ  died,  so  treated, 
his  heart  was  broken.  He  begged  his  superiors  to 
let  him  give  up  his  life  to  their  service.  He  took  a 
vow,  which  he  kept  faithfull}',  to  be  a  'slave  of  the 
slaves.'  " 

"But,  Mademoiselle,"  said  Elise,  "he  could  not 
make  himself  black." 

"No,  dear,"  said  the  governess.  "But  a  black 
skin  does  not  make  a  slave.  'He  sacrificed  his 
inclination.'  That  is  he  never  did  what  he  liked  to 
do,  but  always  what  the  negroes  would  like  him  to 
do." 


48  ELISE. 

"I  should  not  like  that,"  said  Elise.  "I  do  like 
above  all  things  to  have  my  own  way.  I  don't  like 
to  obey  anyone  but  papa,  the  hardest  thing  in  the 
world  is  to  obey  mamma,  or  even  you,  dear  Mad- 
emoiselle, but  I  am  going  to  begin  this  minute,  and 
be  just  like  him,  and  I'm  going  to  be  awful  good  to 
you,  Jacques." 

Jacques  sniffed  incredulously,  but  kept  his 
opinion  to  himself. 

"What  else  did  he  do  for  the  negroes,  Jacques?"" 
continued  the  governess. 

"Got  'em  lots  ob  good  tings  to  eat,"  said  Jacques. 
"I'se  awful  hungry,  Mam'selle,  and  dere's  a  mighty 
good  wilier  ober  dere  for  us  to  eat  our  dinner 
under." 

Mademoiselle  was  firm  that  the}'  should  wait  until 
noon  before  landing  and  undoing  Mammy  Thom- 
son's big  hamper:  but  Elise  found  him  a  biscuit  and 
took  his  place  at  the  oars  for  a  while,  in  pursuance 
of  her  good  resolution. 

Mademoiselle  continued:  "The  poor  negroes  were 
carried  from  the  ships  to  prisons,  where  they  were 
treated  far  worse  than  we  would  treat  our  animals.. 
The  saint  went  to  live  with  them,  one  might  almost 
say.  For  fifty  years  he  endured  this  life  of  slow 
martyrdom.  Then  when  his  body  gave  way  and  he 
was  unable  to  toil  any  longer,  he  still  persevered  in 
crucifying  his  inclination,  and  even  in  his  last  illness 
refused  to  allow  himself  the    ordinary  comforts    of 


ELISE.  49 

life.  After  his  death  the  whole  city  rose  up  as  one 
man  and  called  him  a  saint.  He  wrought  many 
miracles.  He  raised  two  from  the  dead  ;  but  the 
greatest  of  all  miracles,  was  his  humble,  mortified 
life,  persevered  in  for  half  a  century.  He  had 
baptized  four  hundred  thousand  negroes  with  his  owa 
hand." 

Mademoiselle  sat  lost  in  her  own  thoughts.  Elise 
had  dropped  the  oars  and  sat  gazing  at  the  relic. 
Who  can  say  what  St.  Peter  Claver  was  doing  for 
her  bright,  loving,  fervent  little  heart. 

Jacques  had  finished  his  biscuit,  and  with  an 
exclamation  of  disgust  came  scrambling  over  the 
seats. 

"Hi,  lile  Missy !  you'se  drifting  right  onto  dat 
snag." 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Elise,  "Mary  Auger  says 
your  relic  is  nothing  but  an  old  rag  put  in  a  glass 
case." 

"Dat  sure  nuf,  sassy  chile,  Mary  Auger,"  said 
Jacques. 

"  I  think,  children,  you  are  hardly  old  enough  yet 
to  understand  the  full  meaning  of  the  '  Communion 
of  Saints,'  but  I  am  very  sure  that  Mary  has  the 
love  tokens  of  earthly  friends  which  she  would  not 
at  all  like  to  hear  were  only  bits  of  paper,  etc." 

"Hi !  don't  she  git  mad?"  said  Jacques. 

"And  don't  you  remember  how  handkerchiefs  and 
aprons  were  carried   from   St.   Peter  and  the  other 


io 


ELISE. 


apostles,  to  the  sick,  and  possessed  the  virtue  to  cure 
them?"  added  the  governess. 

"Papa  said,  that  if  only  our  spiritual  eyes  were 
opened,  we  would  see  angels  all  around  us,  and  per- 
-haps  sometimes,  like  little  Bernadette  at  Lourdes, 
the  Blessed  Mother.  I  wish  mine  were.  I  would  so 
like  to  see  my  guardian  angel.  Do  you  think,  Mad- 
emoiselle, if  I  prayed  lots  and  lots  as  hard  as  I  could 
to  be  'pure  in  heart,'  that  my  spiritual  eyes  would  be 
open,  that  I  may  see?"  said  the  child  wistfully. 

"I  don'  want  to,"  said  Jacques,  "I'se  'fraid  of 
ghostesses." 

Then  bending  to  his  oars  he  began  a  French  boat 
song,  Elise  joined  in  with  him,  and  so  the  morning 
went  happily  on,  with  song  and  story,  until  at  last 
Mademoiselle  gave  orders  to  land  for  rest  and  a 
•dinner. 


CHAPTER  V. 

FATHER    LAWRENCE. 

In  the  meantime  what  had  become  of  M.  de  la 
Roche  and  his  family?  We  left  them  boarding  the 
steamer  under  the  fire  of  the  guerillas.  The  poor 
little  mother  fainted  at  the  first  alarm,  while  the  dis- 
tracted father  offered  anything,  any  sum  of  money, 
for  men  and  a  boat  to  go  to  the  rescue  of  his  child. 
Perceiving  that  his  request  would  not  be  granted,  he 
attempted  to  jump  into  the  water  at  the  peril  of  his 
life.  In  this  he  was  prevented,  and  was  forcibly 
held,  while  the  steamer,  putting  on  all  steam,  went 
rapidly  down  the  river. 

Madame  came  out  of  her  fainting  fit  only  to  go 
into  vdolent  hysterics,  and  succeeded  in  rousing  the 
sympathies  of  all  the  passengers,  many  of  whom 
Avere  refugees  like  themselves.  After  all  she  was 
easily  consoled ;  she  had  her  husband  and  Henri, 
and  was  quite  willing  to  believe  the  captain,  when  he 
represented  to  her  that  the  child  would  be  restored 
to  her  almost  as  soon  as  she  reached  New  Orleans. 


52  ELISE. 

"Elise  could  always  take  good  care  of  herself,"  she 
said  to  her  sympathizers,  "she  is  such  an  independ- 
ent child.  Dear  mamma  used  to  say  '  that  she 
could  manage  if  she  were  dropped  alone  in  China,* 
so  different,  you  know,  to  Henri,  who  clings  so  to 
me.      She  has  not  much  heart,  I  fear." 

The  father  made  no  answer,  but  the  thought  of 
his  child,  far  dearer  to  him  than  all  the  world,  in  the 
hands  of  the  guerillas,  filled  his  soul  with  despera- 
tion which  took  all  a  man's  strong  will  to  control. 
With  the  love  of  true  friendship,  which  was  strength- 
ening day  by  day,  unknown  to  themselves,  or  to 
the  world,  their  souls  were  knit  together.  Elise  was 
the  only  one  who  had  any  conception  of  the  high 
ideals  for  which  her  father  was  striving.  Child  as 
she  was,  she  grasped  them,  and  looked  up  to  her 
father,  with  an  admiring  love  and  confidence  which 
won  his  whole  heart.  He  was  obliged  to  go  on  with 
his  family  to  New  Orleans,  evincing  apparent  calm, 
but  with  a  strong  man's  prayers,  he  besieged  Heaven 
to  gain  safety  and  protection  for  his  dear  child, 
until  at  length  peace  stole  over  his  soul,  calming  the 
storm,  and  giving  him  an  assurance  that  all  was  well. 
Communion  with  God  was  his  only  comfort,  and  when 
not  required  by  the  needs  of  his  famil)%  he  returned 
again  to  his  interior  life,  until  all  were  struck  by  the 
peace  and  resignation  of  his  countenance. 

They  reached  New  Orleans  about  three  in  the 
afternoon,  and  were  met  at  the  wharf  by  M.  Gabriel^ 


KLI.^E. 


ELISE.  •  53^ 

brother  of  M.  de  la  Roche.  He  met  them  with  re- 
Heved  face,  and  outstretched  hands. 

"Well  met  I  you  are  just  hi  time,"  he  exclaimed. 
"I  didn't  suppose  you'd  have  so  much  sense,  Henri. 
The  New  York  steamer  leaves  at  six.  I  have  en- 
gaged your  staterooms  and  was  just  fretting  myself 
to  death  because  I  thought  there  would  be  no  one  to 
take  them,  though  for  that  matter,  there  are  piles  of 
people  going  North,  who  would  be  glad  enough  to 
get  them." 

Tearfully  they  explained  to  him  their  troubles, 
which  he  heard  with  downcast  face. 

"Poor  child  I"  said  M.  Gabriel,  "I  thought  you 
were  in  more  trouble  than  I  expected  to  see,  but  the 
child  will  be  all  right,  and  you  must  go  without  her, 
Henri.  We  are  likely  to  be  blockaded  any  day  and 
this  maybe  your  last  chance  to  get  through  in  safety. 
You  can  do  no  good  to  Elise  by  remaining  here,  but 
I  can  send  a  squad  of  Confederate  soldiers  after  her 
in  a  steam  yacht  and  bring  her  down  in  time  to  take 
the  next  chance  for  going  North,  after  \'ou,  under  the 
care  of  friends.  So  far  from  helping  us  in  the  rescue, 
your  presence  would  only  prove  a  source  of  em- 
barrassment to  us." 

INI.  Gabriel  spoke  with  some  unkindness ;  his 
brother's  unworldliness  had  always  been  a  source  of 
trial  to  him.  "A  want  of  judgment,  and  common 
sense  he  called  it,"  and  now  seeing  no  sign  of  yield- 
ing in  him,  he  turned   to  Madame,  and  as  he  turned 


54  ELISE. 

he  saw  someone  coming  down  the  wharf  whom  he 
hailed  with  great  rehef. 

It  was  Father  Lawrence. 

The  priest  who  came  toward  them  was  stout,  and 
short  in  stature,  with  round,  smooth  face  and  Hght 
brown  hair  which  was  brushed  smoothly  down  be- 
hind his  ears.  He  was  of  Quaker  descent  and  had 
inherited  the  sweetness  and  quietness  of  that  sect. 
He  had  a  most  genial  smile  and  manner ;  there  was 
nothing  in  his  dress  to  indicate  the  priest.  With 
perfect  simplicity,  and  total  lack  of  self  conscious- 
ness, he  advanced  to  meet  them. 

M.  Gabriel  poured  forth  his  stor}'  as  soon  as  the 
first  greetings  were  over,  and  appealed  to  the  priest 
to  support  him.  One  glance  between  Father  Law- 
rence and  M.  Henri  showed  to  the  priest  all  that  was 
in  the  poor  father's  heart. 

Father  Lawrence  stood  silent,  and  absorbed  for  a 
few  moments.     He  turned  to  M.  Henri. 

"My  son,"  he  said,  "I  fear  you  must  go." 

"Oh  father!"  was  all  M.  Henri  could  answer,  as 
he  wrung  the  priest's  hand,  "\'ou  ask  too  much  of 
me." 

"Your  brother  is  right  in  thinking  that  }-ou  should 
place  yourself,  and  those  dependent  on  }-ou,  in  safety 
while  you  can  do  so.  I  myself  will  go  with  the 
soldiers,  and  take  charge  of  Elise,  as  though  she  were 
my  own." 

M.    Henri    listened    in    anguish  to    this    decision. 


ELISE.  55 

The  great  drops  of  sweat  stood  out  on  his  pale  fore- 
head and  a  deathly  faintness  stole  over  him.  His 
own  reason,  however,  showed  him  this  was  the  best 
plan,  and  he  submitted  with  a  sore  heart.  Silently 
he  nodded  his  acquiescence  to  his  brother,  who  hasten- 
ed to  put  Madame  and  the  children  into  a  carriage, 
while  M.  Henri  took  the  priest's  arm  and  walked 
down  the  wharf.  He  had  the  consolation  of  seeing 
the  father  and  some  soldiers  embarked  in  a  steam 
yacht  for  Regalia  before  he  left,  and  telegrams  were 
sent  to  the  different  points  to  look  out  for  the  missing 
ones. 

"Look  out  for  her  on  the  next  New  York  steamer,'' 
said  Father  Lawrence  cheerfully,  as  he  stepped  on 
board  the  yacht. 

We  may  as  well  add  that  their  search  was  in  vain, 
however.  Mademoiselle  and  Jacques  had  so  well 
covered  their  flight  that  no  trace  could  be  found  of 
them.  The  guerillas  denied  having  ever  seen  them 
at  all.  Old  Mammy  Thomson's  hut  was  overlooked 
in  the  general  search.  No  one  had  heard,  or  seen 
them.  They  had  apparently  vanished  from  the  face 
of  the  earth.  A  final  incident  to  be  related  here- 
after, gave  rise  to  the  belief  that  all  had  perished  in 
the  river. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


THE   BAYOU. 


We  left  our  voyagers  about  to  land  at  noon  for 
rest  and  refreshment.  The  place  Mademoiselle 
pointed  out  to  Jacques  was  where  a  bend  of  the 
river  made  a  little  semi-circular  bay.  It  was  a  lovely 
peaceful  spot,  there  were  no  houses  in  sight,  so 
that  it  seemed  entirely  secluded  from  observation. 
This  was,  in  part,  owing  to  the  fact  that  the  embank- 
ments were  so  high  that  nothing  could  be  seen  be- 
yond them.  Jacques  landed  them  on  a  sandy  beach 
at  the  foot  of  an  old  tree  growing  out  of  the  em- 
bankment, and  whose  overhanging  branches  were 
so  laden  with  long,  grey  moss,  as  to  form  a  kind  of 
pavilion  for  the  little  party.  Mademoiselle  seated 
herself  on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree,  while  Elise  opened 
Mammy  Thomson's  hamper  ;  and  Jacques  built  a  fire 
from  the  scattered  drift  wood.  Mademoiselle  soon 
became  lost  in  painful  musing;  already  she  began 
to  see  almost  insurmountable  difficulties  in  her  way. 
Jacques  was  already  so  tired  at  the  end  of  a  few 


ELISE.  57 

hours,  that  he  could  not  hold  out  much  longer  she 
felt  sure. 

Alone,  with  two  helpless  children  in  a  country 
demoralized  by  war,  what  should  she  do?  They 
looked  for  protection  to  her  who  felt  so  sorely  in 
need  of  protection  herself. 

Mademoiselle  was  the  last  of  the  family.  She  had 
been  living  alone  with  her  mother  in  New  Orleans 
previously  to  her  engagement  with  M.  de  la  Roche. 
She  was  enabled  to  support  both  by  giving  lessons 
in  French,  and  music.  Bravely  she  struggled, 
and  in  silence,  and  her  mother  never  wanted  for 
anything,  little  dreaming  of  the  self-denial  of  her 
child,  made  in  order  to  meet  her  desire,  but  that 
child  was  happy  in  saying  after  her  mother's  death  : 
"She  never  expressed  a  wish  that  was  not 
gratified."  Well  it  was  for  Mademoiselle  that  the 
end  was  not  long.  A  long  sickness  would  have 
obliged  her  to  that  bitterest  of  all  things,  asking 
charity  from  others.  A  sudden  attack  of  pneumonia  I 
and  then  in  three  days  all  was  over,  and  she  was 
left  alone. 

After  her  mother's  death,  the  kind  old  woman, 
whom  the  doctor  had  sent  as  nurse,  drew  her  un- 
resistingly to  her  own  room,  made  her  lie  down,, 
darkened  the  room  and  then  left  her  that  she  might 
perform  the  last  sad  offices  for  the  dead. 

Left  alone,  alone  in  the  great  world  !  the  very 
thought  caused  black  numbness  of  despair  to  settle 


58  ELISE. 

down  and  stupefy  the  poor  governess.  Alone ! 
alone  in  the  world  ! — If  God  had  only  been  merciful 
enough  to  take  her  along  with  her  dear  mother — now 
how  could  she  face  the  terrible  blank  of  the  future? 
She  sank  into  a  sleep,  in  her  great  sorrow,  and  in  her 
dreams  she  seemed  to  see  our  Lord  as  she  had  once 
seen  him  in  the  engraving,  "Christus  Consolator." 
He  was  seated  on  a  throne  holding  out  his  hands  in 
blessing  ;  while  around  Him  was  seen  every  kind  of 
human  sorrow,  and  misery  holding  up  their  hands 
in  earnest  entreaty.  The  mother  holding  up  her  dy- 
ing child,  the  slave  his  manacled  hands,  famine,  want, 
disease  of  every  kind  was  represented  there.  Then 
it  seemed  to  her,  in  her  dream,  that  the  Master 
turned  and  looked  at  her  with  a  glance  that  stirred 
the  depths  of  her  soul  as  He  said  :  pointing  to  the 
people.  "Inasmuch  as  ye  did  it  to  these;  ye  did 
it  to  Me." 

Strengthened  and  comforted  she  fell  into  a  deep 
sleep,  and  when  she  woke  was  astonished  to  find 
herself  so  strong,  and  calm.  After  the  funeral,  when 
all  her  affairs  were  settled,  she  was  enabled  to  pay 
all  her  indebtedness,  but  left  herself  quite  penniless. 
She  had  been  drawn  for  some  years,  by  a  vocation, 
to  become  a  Sister  of  Mercy,  in  the  convent  where 
she  had  been  educated  ;  but  when  she  found  herself 
so  poor,  she  decided  she  must  first  earn  herself  a 
dowry. 

She  advertised  for  a  place  as  governess,  and  was 


ELISE.  59 

engaged  by  M.  de  la  Roche,  and  had  been  with  the 
family  about  six  months,  when  the  war  broke  out. 
Now  here  this  was  ended,  and  she  was  again  poor, 
helpless,  and  homeless,  fleeing  from  unknown  and 
consequently  greater  evils.  Here  she  was  aroused 
from  these  painful  musings  by  a  conversation 
between  the  two  children. 

"Jacques,"  said  Elise,  holding  up  a  fried  chicken, 
"  lucky  it  is  not  Friday.  Do  you  remember  how 
mad  you  were  at  Marie  because  we  had  nothing  for 
dinner  last  Friday  but  salt  fish  balls ;  they  were 
good  though,  I  liked  them." 

"I  doesn't  then,"  grumbled  Jacques. 

"  Marie  Auger  says  all  the  rabble  are  Catholics," 
said  Elise. 

"Oh,  no  I"  said  Jacques  doubtfully.  "Who  am 
dem  rabbles  anyhow?" 

"Well,"  said  Elise,  "I  suppose  she  means  the  poor 
and  the  rough  wicked  people.  I  do-  like  nice  re- 
spectable people,  don't  you,  Jacques?" 

"Sartainly,"  said  Jacques.  "Our  family  is  de 
best  in  de  Ian',  and  we  kin  hold  up  our  heads  any- 
wheres." 

Here,  taking  up  a  board,  he  began  a  vigorous 
tattoo  with  a  stick  accompanied  with  a  jig,  which 
set  Elise  off  in  a  hearty  burst  of  laughter  ;  this  per- 
formance was  to  let  Mademoiselle  know  that  dinner 
was  served.  Hardly  had  they  begun  their  meal^ 
when  they  heard  voices  approaching  overhead. 


60  ELISE. 

"Remember,  Elise,"said  Mademoiselle  hurriedly, 
"do  not  speak  at  all,  if  you  can  avoid  it;  draw  your 
bonnet  over  3'our  face,  and  keep  your  eyes  down 
on  the  ground." 

The  party  approaching  consisted  of  the  owner  of 
the  plantation  where  they  had  landed,  and  some  other 
gentleman  who  had  received  M.  Gabriel's  telegrams. 
Unfortunately  Father  Lawrence  had  not  yet 
arrived.  They  hailed  Jacques  from  the  top  of  the 
embankment  with : 

"  Holloa,  you,  what  are  you  doing  there?" 

"  Nottin',  nottin'  tall,  sah,"  called  Jacques,  "  only 
lile  dinner,  sah." 

"Who  is  that  with  you  ?" 

"Ony  my  'ooman,  an'  lile  gal,  sah." 

Here  Elise  recognizing  the  gentleman  as  one  of 
their  neighbors,  started  up  to  speak  to  him,  and 
received  a  sharp  blow  on  the  ear  from  Mademoiselle, 
who  simulating  a  rough  tone  shouted  : 

"  Hyar,  you  Suke,  sit  down  an'  'have  yourself." 

This  completely  deceived  the  seeking  party,  and 
if  they  had  any  hope  before  of  finding  the  missing 
child,  now  turned  away  and  went  back  leaving  the 
little  party  of  refugees  alone  once  more. 

Poor  little  Elise !  she  had  never  been  struck 
before  in  her  life.  All  the  pride  and  passion  of  her 
nature  rose  out  to  the  combat.  She  drew  herself 
up,  and  looked  at  her  governess  with  a  haughty  im- 
perious air,  and  flashing  eyes. 


ELISE.  6 1 

"How  dare  you?"  she  began,  but  all  at  once  her 
head  drooped,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  her 
cheeks  grew  scarlet.  What  had  so  changed  the 
child?  Before  her  mental  gaze  she  had  seen  the 
cruel  scourging  and  her  memory  brought  back  the 
thought  of  the  relic  she  had  kissed  that  morning, 
with  the  resolution  to  be  just  like  the  saint  who  had 
borne  the  blows  of  his  apostate  master,  and  then  the 
still,  small  voice  of  Him  Who  is  meek  and  lowly  of 
heart.  Again  she  looked  at  her  governess,  and 
met  her  pitying  look.  The  governess  stretched  out 
her  arms  to  her,  and  she  sprang  into  them,  while 
they  mingled  their  tears  together.  Then  seeing 
Jacques  looking  at  them  in  amazement,  his  eyes 
rolling  in  his  head  until  the  whites  were  visible,  and 
his  mouth  wide  open  with  astonishment,  she  burst 
into  a  merry  laugh,  so  contagious,  that  Mademoiselle 
and  Jacques  were  fain  to  join  her,  then  with  renewed 
courage  they  re-embarked  on  the  long  voyage  to 
New  Orleans. 

"  My  darling,"  said  Mademoiselle,  as  they  again 
headed  their  course  down  stream,  "you  must  be  more 
cautious.  You  nearly  betrayed  us  and  would  have, 
if  the  gentlemen  had  not  turned  away  so  quickly." 

"But,  Mademoiselle,  that  was  M.  Du  Bois,  I  have 
often  seen  him  at  Regalia,"  said  Elise. 

"True,  my  child,  but  now  you  must  trust  me  and 
speak  to  no  one  if  you  wish  soon  to  join  your 
parents." 


62  ELISE. 

Elise  promised,  and  the  governess  recalling  the 
children's  conversation  before  dinner  continued  : 

"Tell  us,  Elise,  when  St.  John  Baptist  sent  his 
disciples  to  our  Lord  to  find  out  if  he  were  the  true 
Messiah,  what  two  marks  did  he  give  them?" 

"His  miracles,  and  that  the  poor  had  the  Gospel 
preached  to  them."  was  the  prompt  reply. 

"Then, "said  Mademoiselle,  "besides  the  four  marks 
given  in  catechism,  'It  is  'One,  Holy,  Catholic,  and 
Apostolic,'  there  are  these  two  additional  ones,  the 
church  of  miracles,  and  the  church  of  the  outcast, 
the  poor." 

Elise  colored  a  little  and  said  :  "I  do  not  mind 
Catholics  being  poor,  but  the  bad  people.  Mary 
Auger  says  all  our  prisons  and  reformatories  are 
filled  with  Catholics." 

"  'Why  doth  your  Master  eat  with  publicans  and 
sinners?'  "  said  Mademoiselle  in  low  impressive  tones, 
"and  the  Master  answered  ;  'I  came,  not  to  call  the 
righteous  but  sinners  to  repentance,'  and  also,  'they 
that  are  in  health,  need  not  a  physician,  but  they  that 
are  ill.'  Tell  me,  Elise,  would  you  like  Holy  Mother 
Church  to  reckon  only  nice,  respectable  people  as 
her  children  the  Pharisees  and  Scribes  of  our  day?  " 

Elise's  look  was  sufiicient  answer,  as  she  scrambled 
over  the  seats  behind  Jacques,  and  began  to  look 
down  in  the  water.  They  were  still  in  the  bay  and 
the  water  very  shallow ;  presently  Elise  became 
greatly  excited. 


ELISE.  6$. 

"Oh  Jacques  I"  said  she,  "I  can  see  fish — one^ 
two,  three." 

"Dat  so?"  said  Jacques.  "By-em-by  we  catch  em 
for  our  supper." 

"Give  me  a  Hne  now,  Jacques,  and  I'll  troll  while 
you  row." 

Jacques,  who  could  refuse  nothing  to  his  "lile  Missy," 
began  searching  for  the  required  articles  in  the  little 
cubby  under  the  seat,  and  Mademoiselle  drew  a  book 
from  her  satchel  and  was  soon  lost  in  its  contents. 

It  took  much  time  and  discussion  to  adjust  the- 
fishing  tackle  satisfactorily,  and  in  the  meantime  the 
boat  drifted  with  the  current. 

Mademoiselle's  attention  was  finally  drawn  by  the 
shade  and  gathering  gloom  around  her.  It  was 
grateful  after  the  hot  noonday  sun,  but  it  finally 
struck  her  that  it  was  not  just  the  thing.  She  lifted 
her  head,  and  gazed  around  her. 

"Why,  children,"  she  said,  as  she  looked  up,- 
''where  are  we?  Jacques,  where  are  we?  Jacques, 
what  are  you  doing?" 

Jacques  stared  round  him  with  open  mouth  and 
comical  astonishment.  They  seemed  floating  down 
a  swift  stream.  Trees  were  on  every  side,  and  the 
long  pendants  of  grey  moss  gave  a  solemn  aspect  to- 
the  scene.  The  sun  was  completely  shut  out,  except 
where  it  entered  at  intervals,  showing  treacherous 
green  hummocks,  half  submerged  trunks  of  fallen 
trees,  and  dangerous  looking  snags. 


64  ELISE. 

Poor  Jacques  looked  utterly  bewildered  for  a 
moment.     After  glancing  round  he  exclaimed  : 

"Let  us  bress  de  Lord  !  Marm'selle,  I  'specks  we'se 
in  de  bayou.      I  row  right  back  agin  in  a  minit." 

But  alas  !  that  was  not  so  easily  done.  A  strong 
current  seemed  drawing  them -irresistibly  on,  and 
whichever  way  they  turned  they  found  only  an 
endless  succession  of  creeks,  forest  and  snags.  Elise 
forgot  her  fishing,  and  after  reeling  in  her  line,  crept 
quietly  up  to  Mademoiselle  and  sat  in  the  bottom  of 
the  boat  with  her  head  in  her  governess'  lap.  Two 
or  three  hours  passed,  and  poor  Jacques  was  utterly 
exhausted.  Courage  was  fast  dying  out  in  their 
breasts.  Once  an  immense  cayman  stuck  up  his  long 
5nout  near  the  boat,  and  looked  at  them  wickedly ; 
again  a  water  moccasin  seized  the  oar.  They  were 
tormented  by  mosquitoes,  and  at  last  Jacques  laid 
down  his  oars,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Where  are  we,  and  what  shall  we  do?"  said 
Mademoiselle. 

"Deed,  I  don't  know,''  said  Jacques,  forcing  back 
his  tears. 

"Let  us  all  say  the  Memorare  together,"  said 
Mademoiselle. 

And  together  they  repeated  St.  Bernard's  wonder- 
ful prayer. 

Hardly  had  they  finished  when  they  heard  a  shout, 
and  looking  up  they  saw  a  long  narrow  canoe  pro- 
pelled through  the  water  by  some  Indians  who 
were  shouting  and  gesticulating  to  them. 


ELISE. 


65 


"Merciful  Heavens  !"  said  the  governess,  "we  are 
lost." 

Jacques  began  to  bawl  out  loud  like  a  baby. 
Elise,  white  and  trembling  clung  to  her  governess, 
whispering : 

"Dear  Mademoiselle,  shall  we  be  martyrs?" 


Rising  to  the  occasion,  the  governess  regained  her 
calm,  and  said  : 

"Hush,  children !  have  courage,  and  God  will 
protect  us." 

As  the  Indians  drew  nearer  the  little  party  were 
reassured  by  hearing  themselves  addressed  in 
French.  The  leader  among  the  Indians  stood  up, 
and  threw  a  coil  of  rope  at  Jacques,  shouting  an 


65  ELISE. 

exclamation  of  disgust  at  his  cowardice,  and  com- 
manded him  to  fasten  it  to  his  boat.  Jacques,  in 
fear  and  trembling,  dried  up  his  tears  and  obeyed. 
The  Indians  towed  the  boat  rapidly  through  the- 
water,  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  they  were  float- 
ing once  more  on  the  broad  river,  in  shelter  of  a 
qui^it  cove.  The  Indians  then  drew  up  their  canoe 
alongside  the  boat. 

"What  are  you  doing?  and  where  did  you  come 
from?"  said  their  leader  abruptly. 

"We  are  poor  refugees  from  the  war,"  answered 
Mademoiselle,  "  and  we  are  trying  to  regain  our 
home  and  friends  in  New  Orleans." 

"And  what  brought  you  into  the  bayou?"  de- 
manded the  Indian. 

"We  do  not  know,  we  suddenh'  found  ourselves 
there,"   said   Mademoiselle. 

"You  were  drawn  in  by  the  current,  and  the  fool- 
ishness of  that  big  baby,  I  suppo&e,"  said  the  Indian. 
"Do  not  trust  him  again.  Ten  minutes  later  and 
you  would  have  been  lost  forever  in  the  quicksands." 

Mademoiselle  thanked  him  gratefully,  and  offered 
him  money  but  he  refused  it,  and  tossing  into  their 
boat  a  fine  fish,  he  loosed  the  rope,  and  quickly 
shot  back  into  the  shadows  of  the  bayou. 

Mademoiselle  then  took  Jacques'  place  at  the  oars, 
for  his  hands  were  blistered,  and  the  whole  party 
worn  out  with  fatigue,  and  excitement.  But  the  day 
was  drawing  to  a  close,   and  she  felt  her  strength 


ELISE.  6"] 

fast  giving  way.  She  soon  decided  that  they  must 
land  for  the  night,  and  looked  about  for  a  place. 

Alas  !  in  plain  sight  was  a  tree,  the  big  willow 
where  they  had  dined ;  they  had  not  advanced  two 
miles  down  the  river  since  then. 

Silently  and  dejectedly  they  landed.  Jacques 
dared  not  look  Mademoiselle  in  the  face  ;  but  as  he 
again  kindled  a  fire  his  spirits  rose  and  soon  he  was 
chatting  gayly  to  Elise  as  he  dressed  the  shad  that 
the  Indians  had  given  them  for  their  evening  meal. 

"Yer  nebber  ate  planked  shad  afore  now  did  ye, 
lile  Missy?  Fore  de  Lawd  it's  good  now,  you'll  see. 
Fust  we  takes  a  clean  board  like  dis  un  "  : — suiting 
the  action  to  the  word.  "  Den  I  nails  de  fish  down  on 
""un  flat  like  dat.  Lucky  I  had  dem  nails  in  my 
pocket.  Low,  no  count  niggas  nebber  hab  any- 
ting  when  you  want  it.  Den  I  stan's  itober  de  coals 
like  dat,  an  by-em-by  you  sa}^ :  'Jacques,  I  nebber 
ate  anyting  so  good  afore  in  all  my  life.'  " 

He  then  proceeded  to  boil  the  coffee,  and  an- 
nounce formally  and  solemnly  to  Mademoiselle, 
that  dinner  was  served. 

He  kept  away  from  her,  however,  and  employed 
himself  in  gathering  moss  and  evergreen  boughs  for 
their  bed.  When  he  had  finished,  he  went  to  the 
locker  of  the  boat  and  drew  forth  a  piece  of  mos- 
quito netting  which  he  suspended  to  the  bough  of  a 
tree  and  the  sleeping  apartment  was  finished. 

The  ladies,  indeed,  in  the  meantime  found  their 


68 


ELISE. 


meal  excellent ;  and  with  grateful  hearts  a  little  later 
they  knelt,  and  repeated  the  night  prayers.  Then 
confiding  themselves  to  the  care  of  their  guardian 
angels,  they  fell  asleep  as  secure  as  though  guarded 
by  legions  of  soldiers. 


Av-^V     ^ 


HENRI. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


DEATH. 

"Now,  Jacques,"  said  Elise  decidedly,  as  the  next 
morning  they  stepped  into  the  boat  to  go  on  their 
voyage.  "I'm  going  to  row  today,  yesterday,  you 
and  Mademoiselle  did  all  the  work,  and  to-day  it  is 
my  turn." 

"Laws  I  no,  lile  Missy,  I  spec'  I  see  dem  lile 
arms  of  yours  at  dese  oars.  Why,  3'ou  couldn't  go 
no  ways  'tall.  Jes'  you  wait  till  I  git  goin',  and 
kinder  limbered  out,  and  you'll  see  we'll  be  at  New 
Orleans  in  jis'  no  time  'tall." 

"I  think  we  will  not  attempt  to  row  much  farther," 
said  the  governess.  "At  the  next  settlement  we  had 
better  stop,  and  Jacques  may  try  to  sell  the  boat. 
Then  we  will  put  on  our  own  clothes,  and  the  money 
we  get  for  the  boat  ought  to  pay  our  passage  to 
New  Orleans  by  rail." 

"Hooray  for  Marm'selle  I"  shouted  Jacques,  swing- 
ing his  hat,  while  Elise  clapped  her  hands  with  joy ; 
the  boat  had  lost  all  its  attractions  now,  and  the 
children  were  heartily  tired  of  it. 


70  ELISE. 

"De  bery  ting,"  said  Jacques.  "Wy  didn'  we 
tink  ob  it  afore?  But  wat  dat  boat  comin'  dis  way? 
Oh,  lile  Missy,  look  at  de  dude  yacht  comin'  in.  Dey 
looks  at  us,  as  if  dey  nebber  see  'spectable  folk  afore. 
Sassy  fellahs  !  Hope  you'll  know  us  nex'  time  you 
sees  us." 

"Keep  this  side,  Jacques,  out  of  their  way,"  said 
Mademoiselle  nervously. 

"Look  I"  said  Elise,  "one  must  be  a  priest,  he  has 
a  coat  like  one,  and  see  they  are  going  to  land." 

"Glad  we'se  got  off  fust,"  said  Jacques. 

"Why,"  said  Elise,  "don't  you  like  priests,  why 
aren't  you  more  pious?" 

"I  didn'  mean  de  priest,  any  more'n  anyone  else," 
said  Jacques,  "bvit  dis  wat  I  tink,  lile  Missy,  and 
dat  wat  Fadder  Lawrence  tell  us  too.  Dat  ef  I 
good  boy,  and  'bey  de  Church  and  Massa  an  Mistis, 
when.  I  goes  to  mass,  and  tries  to  be  kin'  to  ebbery- 
body,  and  not  be  cross,  wen  folks  isn't  good  to  me, 
dat  wat  de  bes'  religion  for  dis  ol'  fellah  I  tinks." 

"I  think  so,  too,  Jacques,"  said  the  governess, 
"and  let  us  all  try  to  practise  it  now,  where  there  is 
so  much  to  try  our  patience." 

How  little  they  dreamed  that  Father  Lawrence  was 
the  very  priest  they  had  just  seen,  and  that  the  yacht 
was  going  in  search  of  them,  whom  they  had  passed 
by,  unrecognized  in  their  negro  dress.  On  they 
went,  the  little  band  of  fugitives  to  New  Orleans  while 
the  priest  and  soldiers  searched  in  vain  for  them. 


ELISE.  71 

Keeping  the  little  sermon,  which  Jacques  preached, 
in  mind,  each  strove  to  put  away  the  discomfort  caused 
by  a  night  in  camp,  and  to  keep  up  courage  and 
cheerfulness  for  the  sake  of  the  others,  shortening 
the  way  with  song,  jest  and  story,  and  with  many 
anticipations  of  the  happy  reunion  in  New  Orleans, 
little  dreaming  that  to  one  of  their  number  home 
and  heaven  were  so  near. 

It  was  nearly  noon  ;  they  were  talking  of  landing, 
and  straining  their  e3'es  to  see  if  there  were  any 
signs  of  a  settlement  around.  Jacques  had  rowed 
out  well  into  the  current  of  the  river,  in  order  to 
take  advantage  of  that,  to  help  them  on  their  way, 
when  suddenly  they  heard  coming  around  the  bend 
of  the  river  behind  them  the  puff,  puff,  of  a  large 
steamer,  and  looking  around  they  saw  a  large  cotton 
packet  bearing  directly  down  on  them.  It  was  a 
broad,  flat  bottom  steamer,  with  side  wheels  shaded 
something  like  our  ferry  boats,  and  was  piled  to  the 
top  of  the  two  smoke  stacks,  with  bales   of  cotton. 

"Row  in  shore,  Jacques  !"  screamed  Mademoiselle. 

The  packet  whistled  loudly,  and  the  men  on 
board  her  shouted  directions,  and  the  commotion 
made  poor  Jacques  completely  lose  his  head.  He 
bent  desperately  at  his  oars,  and  rowed  them  directly 
across  the  steamer's  path.  Mademoiselle  and  Elise 
stood  up,  threw  their  arms  around  each  other,  and 
closing  their  eyes,  awaited  the  shock.  The  packet 
shot  by  so  closely,  that  it  upset  the  little  boat,  but 


'J2  ELISE. 

tv^vo  m2n  who  had  run  forward  with  boat  hooks, 
caught  up  the  two  women,  and  drew  them  on  the 
deck  uninjured,  while  poor  Jacques  was  thrown  into 
the  water,  and  drawn  under,  by  the  big  side  wheel. 
The  boat  was  stopped  at  once,  and  as  he  rose  to  the 
surface  behind  the  boat,  he,  too,  was  caught  by  a 
boat  hook,  and  hauled  up  on  deck.  He  was  quite 
unconscious  at  first,  but  every  effort  was  made  to 
revive  him,  and  at  last  he  gasped,  opened  his  eyes, 
and  tried  to  move. 

He  could  not,  and  the  effort  to  do  so  caused  him 
to  moan  sadly. 

It  was  evident  that  he  had  been  badly  injured  by 
a  blow  from  the  wheel.  The  poor  lad  laid  on  the 
deck  of  the  packet,  wrapped  in  a  coarse  blanket,  with 
his  head  in  Elise's  lap.  Mademoiselle  was  kneeling 
beside  him,  applying  the  restoratives.  The  crew  of 
the  packet  were  standing  around  gazing  at  the  group. 
The  pallor  of  the  poor  black  face,  the  sharpening 
features,  and  gasping  breath,  showed  that  death 
was  near  at  hand.  Overhead  was  the  clear  blue  of 
a  summer  sky,  flecked  here  and  there  with  a  fleecy 
cloud.  The  exceeding  peace  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
rested  overall  the  landscape.  How  could  so  dread- 
ful a  thing  as  death  be  there? 

Jacques  looked  first  at  the  weeping  child,  and  then 
around  at  the  others  in  a  bewildered  way,  and  finally 
Slid  in  a  low  frightened  tone: 

"Wiiar'  is  I  ?    Oh  I  I  remembers,  I  fell  in  de  water. 


ELISE.  73 

Tank  God  we'se  safe,  lile  Missy.  I'se  'fraid  I'd  killed 
ye,  but  don  y'  cry,  what  for  you  cry  so  hard?  Is  I 
gwine  to  die?" 

"Jacques,  dear,"  said  the  governess  in  a  low  sweet 
tone,  "are  you  willing  to  give  up  your  life,  if  God 
asks  you  for  it?" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Jacques  wearily,  "willin'  and 
glad,  pears  like  dis  worl'  no  place  for  pore  cullered 
boy  like  me.  Seems  like  I  don't  belong  nowhars 
or  to  nobody.  Now  Massa  Henri  and  de  Mistis 
gwine  Norf,  better  I  die,  and  go  home.  What  was 
de  prar,'  Mamselle?  I  mos' disremember.  What  was 
it?  'Wen  dow  will,  whar  dow  wilt,  an'  as  dow  wilt, 
only  in  de  communion  ob  de  Holy  Cattolic  Church, 
an'  in  perfect  charity  wid  all  mankin'.'  I  is  dat  I 
belieb  truly,  and  I  say  dat  ebbery  night  since  we 
learned  it,  Marmselle,  las'  Sunday *' 

A  moment's  silence,  broken  by  his  difficult  breath- 
ing, and  the  sobs  of  the  women. 

"How  Massa  Henri  laugh  wen  I  say  dat  to  you 
first  time,  on'y  las'  Sunday ;  don'  dat  seem  long 
time  ago?" 

"Oh  Jacques  I"  sobbed  Elise.  "Don't  die,  please, 
please  don't  die,  and  papa  will  take  you  North  with  us. 
He  didn't  know,  and  we  did  not  any  of  us  dream  you 
were  so  lonely.  I  know  he  will  take  you,  when  he 
hears  how  good  and  brave  you  have  been  for  us." 

"I'se  made  a  good  confession  las'  time  :  Fadder 
Lawrence  he  say  so  hissef.      I  went  to  Holy  Com- 


74  ELISE. 

munion  so  I'se  ^vashcd  clean  and  am  ready  to  go, 
better  I  goes  now  I  tink.  Massa  don'  want  to  take 
no  no-account  niggahs  Norf  wid  him." 

Just  then  strains  of  music  came  across  the  water, 
from  another  steamer  going  up  the  river  with  a 
regiment  of  soldiers  on  board.  The  regimental 
band  waspla3'ing  "Dixie." 

Jacques  smiled  faintly.  "Member  dat  walk-around 
on  VVhitsun-Tuesday,  lile  Missy?  Massa  Henri 
tumbled  down.  How  Fadder  Lawrence  and  Massa 
and  Mistis  did  laugh  ;  but  you  didn'  fall  down,  you 
double  shuffle  wid  de  bes'.  Oh !  I  wish  Fadder 
Lawrence  was  here  now,  so  I  do,"  and  he  looked 
wistfully  at  Mademoiselle. 

"Make  your  act  of  contrition,  Jacques,"  said  she 
tenderly,  "and  trust  all  to  God,  and  all  will  be  well 
with  you." 

Slowly,  painfully,  with  uiar.y  a  pause,  he  made  £. 
fervent  act  of  contrition,  adding  the  acts  of  Faith, 
Hope  and  Charity,  which  Holy  Mother  Church  puts 
into  her  children's  mouths  for  all  times,  and  needs. 

Then  Mademoiselle  began  the  prayers  for  those 
in  their  agony,  while  Elise  held  the  lighted  candle, 
which  a  Catholic  sailor  brought,  in  the  now  power- 
less fingers.  She  held  the  crucifix  to  his  lips  whisper- 
ing comforting  ejaculations  in  his  ear.  He  kissed 
the  crucifix  fervently  and  a  look  of  joy  and  peace 
stole  over  his  face. 

"  I   cannot  see,"  he  gasped,   "  an'  de  water  is  in 


ELISE.  75 

my  ears.  Jesus,  Mary,  and  Joseph;"  one  more 
gasp,  and  all  was  over.  The  governess  began  the 
"  Rosary  for  the  Dead,"  but  was  stopped  by  Elise, 
who  threw  herself  with  a  terrified  scream  into  her 
arms. 

The  captain,  a  New  England  man,  now  stepped 
forward.  He  had  been  at  first  greatly  annoyed, 
and  afterward  puzzled  by  the  whole  occurrence. 
He  supposed,  when  he  saw  them,  that  they  were  a 
party  of  negroes  fishing,  and  his  language  was  more 
emphatic  than  choice  and  select,  when  they  got  under 
his  packet.  He  stood  ready  to  give  the  two  darkeys 
a  sound  scolding  when  they  were  hauled  up  on  deck 
by  his  men,  but  was  struck  dumb,  first  by  the  deli- 
cate, refined  faces,  where  he  expected  black  ones, 
and  afterward  by  the  dying  scene. 

He  motioned  now  to  the  sailors  to  remove  the 
^ody^  while  Elise  was  in  the  arms  of  her  governess, 
sobbing  hysterically,  and  shaking  from  head  to  foot. 
It  was  the  first  time,  poor  child,  she  had  ever  seen 
death,  and  she  was  very  fond  of  Jacques. 

"  Bring  the  child  this  way,  Marm,"  said  the 
captain  gruffly,  leading  the  way  aft,  and  sending  for 
some  wine. 

The  deck  was  piled  nearly  to  the  top  of  the  smoke 
stacks,  as  we  have  said  before,  with  cotton  bales. 
Wending  their  way  through  these  they  came  to  a 
little  space  which  had  been  left  clear  at  the  end  of  the 
boat.     The  captain  pulled  down  a  bale,  threw  a  rug 


'j6  ELISE. 

across  it,  arranged  it  in  a  spot  sheltered  from 
the  sun,  and  then  made  EHse  drink  some  wine,  and 
He  down  on  this  improvised  couch.  He  was  deeply 
impressed  by  the  child's  grief  and  beauty,  and  the 
great  effort  she  made  to  control  herself.  Seeing  her 
at  last  grow  more  quiet,  he  turned  to  Mademoiselle, 
and  said  in  exasperation  : 

"  Now,  Madam,  will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  tell  me 
from  where  you  have  come?  and  who  you  are?  and 
where  you  are  going?  " 

Their  story  was  soon  told.  The  captain  listened 
in  silence,  and  kept  his  own  opinion  as  to  the  sense 
of  women,  and  when  Mademoiselle  had  finished  he 
said  : 

"My  boat  ain't  no  kind  of  place  for  wimen  folks, 
and  that's  the  whole  truth,  but  the  weather  is  warm, 
and  I  reckon  you  can't  do  better  than  manage  on  the 
deck  for  a  night.  In  these  times  it  is  safer  to  lie  to 
at  night,  and  I  always  do  ;  but  I  expect  to  be  in 
New  Orleans  tomorrow  morning  at  nine  o'clock 
sharp,  and  I  guess  you  better  keep  along  with  me 
as  you  don't  seem  to  manage  your  own  craft  very 
well." 

"And  the  boy?"  said  Mademoiselle  anxiously. 
"Can  you  carry  his  body  to  the  city?" 

"Oh  I  that  will  be  all  right,"  said  the  captain. 

"Thank  you,  more  than  I  can  say,  for  your  kind- 
ness;  we  shall  be  grateful  for  your  protection,  and 
you  will  be  well  paid  when  we  reach  our  friends." 


ELisE.  yy 

"All  right,"  said  the  captain  gruffly,  and  he 
turned  on  his  heel  and  left  them. 

In  those  days  when  negroes  were  bought  and  sold 
like  cattle,  their  bodies  after  death  met  with  pretty 
much  the  same  treatment.  The  captain  conjectured 
rightly  that  he  would  get  no  thanks  for  bringing  the 
corpse  to  New  Orleans,  and  had  it  brought  out  on 
the  deck  for  burial,  then  and  there.  The  sailors  were 
struck  by  the  peace,  and  purity  of  the  boy's  face, 
and  the  captain  hesitated,  when  looking  at  it,  about 
committing  it  to  the  water,  but  calling  himself  "an 
old  fool"  under  his  breath,  he  had  the  body  sewed 
in  an  old  sail,  with  a  ten  pound  shot  sewed  in  at  the 
foot,  and  soon  it  was  sleeping  in  the  broad  bosom 
of  the  Mississippi,  until  the  Resurrection  Day. 

Poor  Jacques,  no,  not  poor,  but  happy,  blessed 
Jacques  I  Has  not  the  Master  Himself  said  it : 
"Blessed  are  ye  that  weep  now;  for  ye  shall  laugh. 
Blessed  shall  you  be  when  men  shall  hate  you  ;  and 
cast  out  your  name  as  evil,  for  the  Son  of  Man's 
sake.  Be  glad  in  that  day  and  rejoice,  for  behold 
your  reward  is  great  in  Heaven."  Surely  if  any  one 
has  earned  the  beatitude  that  comes  from  sorrow 
and  humiliations  it  is  the  oppressed  negroes  and 
Indians  of  America. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  afternoon  the  captain 
strayed  in  upon  Mademoiselle  again.  Elise  was 
soundly  sleeping,  and  Mademoiselle  sitting  on  a 
camp    stool    near    her.      The    captain    stood    for   a 


78  ELISE. 

moment,  looking  on  the  sleeping  child.  The  traces 
of  tears  were  still  on  her  cheeks,  the  experiences  of 
the  last  two  days  had  told  on  her  sadly,  and  as  she  laid 
on  the  captain's  scarlet  rug,  she  looked  like  a  broken 
lily,  thrown  carelessly  down  upon  it.  The  crucifix 
she  had  used  for  Jacques,  was  still  pressed  to  her 
lips,  as  it  la}^  on  the  rug  as  if  she  were  holding 
it  there. 

"Pretty  child,  pretty  child  !"  said  the  captain,  gaz- 
ing at  her,  "awful  pious  ain't  she?" 

Mademoiselle  assented. 

"Catholics,  both  of  you?" 

Again  a  silent  assent. 

"Now,  I  was  born  and  eddicated  down  on  Cape 
Cod,  in  Massachusetts,  and  was  brought  up  firm  i» 
the  belief  that  Catholics  were  the  very  worst  kind  of 
folk,  considerably  wuss  than  the  heathens  ;  butlH 
seen  considerabul  of  em  myself,  sence  I've  beer- 
down  here,  and  I  think  the  pious  ones  are  as  good 
as  any  that  goes.  I  like  em  to  work  for  me  bettern 
any  others,  but  how  any  livin'  creature  in  the  name 
of  common  sense  can  believe,  and  do  the  things  that 
Catholics  do  beats  me.  Excuse  me,  Marm,  if  I  hurts 
your  feelings,  but  that's  the  plain  truth." 

"To  what  things  do  you  refer?"  said  Madem- 
oiselle. "I  think  the  Catholic  Faith  is  rational.  Per- 
haps what  you  have  heard  are  stories  made  up  by 
the  enemies  of  the  faith." 

"Wal,  take,   for  instance,  the  doctrine  of  eternal 


ELISE.  79 

punishment.  My  father  used  to  say,  and  he  was  a 
true  blue  old  Calvinist,  that  only  those  few  that  God 
had  elected  for  heaven  could  be  saved,  and  that 
nine  out  of  ten  men  were  predestined  for  hell,  and 
would  burn  there  for  all  eternity.  Now  the  elect 
ones  got  a  change  of  heart,  and  were  awful  pious 
when  it  suited  em  to  be  ;  but  I  didn't  git  one  and 
had  to  conclude  that  I  w^as  among  the  reprobate. 
When  I  looked  around  among  my  friends,  I  told 
my  father  that  I  didn't  know  as  I  was  very  sorry  ; 
for  the  reprobates  were  so  much  more  agreeable 
than  the  elect,  that  I  was  sure  of  better  company 
any  how." 

Mademoiselle  could  not  repress  a  smile. 

"Now,  honest  and  true,  marm,  do  you,  in  your 
heart  of  hearts,  believe  that  a  God  of  love,  will 
force  anybody,  however  much  he  ma}'  have  sinned 
here>  to  burn  in  dreadful  torments  forever  and  evei 
in  hell?  And  that  for  a  sin  which  it  takes  but  a 
moment  to  commit  He  will  punish  with  an  eter- 
nity of  torture?" 

"  God  destines  no  one,  forces  no  one,  wishes  no 
one  to  be  lost,"  said  the  governess,  reverently.  "If 
we  are  lost  it  is  our  own  choice,  not  His.  The 
Catholic  Church  has  utterl}-  condemned  the  Cal- 
vinistic  doctrine  of  your  forefathers,  that  men  are 
elected  for  hell,  but,  oh  !  sir,"  said  the  governess, 
earnestly,  "as  surely  as  there  is  a  city  of  New 
Orleans,    so    surely    is  there    that    dreadful    place 


8o  ELISE. 

where  men  are  deprived  of  the  sight  of  God  for  all 
eternity,  and  are  in  dreadful  torments." 

"I  never  before  heard  of  any  one  choosing  to  go 
to  hell,"  said  the  captain  incredulously. 

"Are  you  sure  of  that?"  said  the  governess. 
"Look  at  the  poor  drunken  wretches  you  meet  and  hear 
of  daily,  committing  the  most  dreadful  crimes,  and 
not  only  suffering  themselves  but  causing  also  the 
innocent  to  softer.  When  you  see  such  a  man  lost 
to  all  the  self-respect  which  is  necessary  to  make 
life  tolerable,  and  unable  to  gain  the  esteem  of 
others,  which  yet  he  longs  for,  is  not  such  a  one 
already  in  hell?  As  you  see  him  lying  in  the 
gutter,  or  shambling  through  the  streets  with 
trembling  limbs,  aching  body,  and  a  dreadful,  con- 
suming, fier}'  thirst  which  draws  him,  and  he 
knows  it,  farther  and  farther  from  life,  light,  and 
happiness,  into  that  terrible  outer  darkness  where 
'the  fire  is  not  quenched,  and  the  worm  dieth  not,' 
is  he  not  already  near  his  condemnation?" 

"  I  expect  he  is  ;  marm,  that's  a  fact."  said  the 
captain,  soberly. 

"And  would  you  say  that  God  forced  him  into 
this  state?" 

"No  ;"  rather  reluctantly. 

"Would  you  say  that  such  a  state  could  become 
fixed?"  she  continued,   "so  there  was  no  return?" 

"I  wouldn't  give  much  for  the  chance  of  reform 
for  most  of  em,"  said  the  captain. 


ELISE.  8l 

Yet  the  Catholic  Church  teaches  that  is  a  heresy, 
and  that,  while  he  lives  in  the  world,  a  man  may 
turn  bv  the  grace  of  God,  and  choose  God  and 
heaven,  and  free  himself  from  the  powers  of  dark- 
ness ;  that  with  our  gift  of  free  will,  we  are 
entirely  free  to  choose  between  light  and  darkness 
here,  and  we  choose,  though  not  free,  hereafter." 

There  was  a  little  silence,  while  both  gazed  at 
the  broad  river,  glittering  in  the  sunlight. 

"And  yet,"  continued  Mademoiselle  in  a  low,  fer- 
vent voice,  "degrading  and  horrible  as  the  sins  of  a 
sensualist  are,  I  would  far  rather  take  my  place  with 
them  at  the  Judgment  Da\^  than  with  the  proud, 
selfish  hypocrite,  the  Pharisee  of  our  day,  who  looks 
out  well  for  himself  and  crushes  down  his  neighbor. 
Yet  what  am  I  to  condemn  others?  Are  we  not  all, 
within  our  souls,  building  either  heaven  or  hell? 
What  is  making  us  bright,  loving,  and  considerate 
with  others,  or  hard,  self-righteous  and  gloomy? 
God  has  made  us  for  Himself,  and  apart  from  Him, 
there  is  no  happiness." 

"Who,  then,  can  be  saved?"  said  the  captain 
quoting  unconsciously. 

"  There  is  the  comfort  of  Purgatory,"  said  the 
governess. 

"Comfort  I"  exclaimed  the  captain,  "I  thought 
you  believed  that  next  door  to  hell  and  almost  as 
had ;    poor  comfort  I  should  call  it." 

"We  are  taught,"  said  Mademoiselle,  "that  only 


82  ELISE. 

those  who  are  absolutely  stainless  from  all  sin,  even 
those  of  thought,  can  go  directly  from  this  world  to 
heaven,  otherwise  it  would  cease  to  be  heaven.  Is 
it  not  then  a  comfort  to  us  poor  sinners  that  there  is 
made  for  us  a  place  for  purifying  us,  even  though  as 
by  fire,  from  the  sinful  habits  we  have  built  up  here? 
There  is  pain,  we  are  taught,  but  there  is  joy 
and  bliss  far  exceeding  the  pain  in  the  knowledge 
which  the  soul  gains  at  the  particular  judgment 
which  comes  immediately  after  death,  that  it  is 
saved ;  it  then  learns  how  beautiful  and  good  is 
God  Whom  it  is  to  enjoy  forever  and  never  offend 
again,  and  it  knows  the  intense  happiness  of  being 
safe  from  offending  Him  Who  died  to  save  us.  I 
think  it  is  the  sight  of  this  that  brings  the  sweet 
smile  of  peace  we  see  on  the  faces  of  the  dead. 
When  people  talk  of  going  from  the  taint  and  foul- 
ness of  this  earth  into  God's  presence  in  heaven  it 
only  shows  how  very  little  they  know  of  the  ex- 
ceeding sanctity  of  God  in  Whose  sight  the 
angels  are  not  pure." 

By  this  time  Elise  had  risen  and  was  standing  by 
Mademoiselle,  with  her  arm  around  the  shoulder 
of  her  governess,  looking  at  the  captain  with  great, 
solemn  eyes. 

"Come  with  me  my  pretty,"  said  the  captain,  "and 
I  will  give  you  something  nice." 

Elise  was  rather  a  reserved  child  with  strangers. 
Mademoiselle  was  astonished  to  see  her  spring  for- 
ward and  take  the  outstretched  hand. 


ELISE. 


83 


"You  have  given  me  much  to  think  of,  Marm," 
said  the  captain,  and  I  thank  you."  Bowing 
politely,  he  walked  off  with  the  little  girl  clinging  to 
his  hand. 

Mademoiselle  comprehended  the  child  better,  as 
she  heard  her  pleading  with  the  captain,  "to  go  and 
see  Father  Lawrence  when  he  got  to  New  Orleans." 


CHAPTER   VIII. 


RESURRECTION. 


It  was  a  lovely  summer  morning  in  the  Crescent 
City,  not  too  warm  as  yet,  for  it  was  still  early.  A 
cool  breeze  was  blowing  off  the  water  and  came  la- 
den with  the  perfume  of  sweet  flowers  into  the  office 
of  M.  Gabriel  de  la  Roche.  The  office  was  a  plea- 
sant room  in  itself,  on  the  ground  floor  of  what  had 
been  once  an  aristocratic  mansion,  but  now  it  had 
fallen  from  its  high  estate,  and  was  let  out  in 
offices  for  business  men.  The  house  was  surround- 
ed still  by  a  garden,  protected  from  the  public  street 
by  a  high  brick  wall.  The  garden  was  yet  carefully 
looked  after,  and  cultivated,  and  the  shade  of  a 
magnificent  climbing  rose,  kept  M.  Gabriel's  office 
cool  and  fragrant. 

He,  however,  did  not  seem  to  appreciate  the 
spirit  of  the  morning,  and  was  plunged  in  the  deep- 
est gloom  and  despondency.  He  sat  tipped  back  in 
his  chaii',   his  feet  on  the  table,   his  hat  drawn  down 


ELISE.  85 

over  his  eyes,  while  he  apparently  studied  the  toes 
of  his  boots.  The  cause  of  this  was  h'ing  open  on 
the  table  before  him  :  a  telegram  from  F'ather  Law- 
rence, which  ran  as  follows  : 

"Not  found ;  no  hope ;  will  be  with  \'ou  in  the 
morning." 

"Most  ridiculous,"  he  soliloquized,  '  'they  can't  have 
flown  away,  or  dissolved  ;  and  yet  the  priest  is  not 
the  one  to  give  way  to  imaginary  difficulties.  How 
shall  I  telegraph  her  father?" 

A  new  fragrance  of  violets,  and  two  little  figures 
darkened  the  door : 

"All  a  growin,  and  ablowin!"  sang  the  little 
one,  exhibiting  her  flower  basket.  M.  Gabriel 
did  not  move,  but  snarled  an  inarticulate  response. 
The  little  flower-sellers  ventured  to  advance  nearer, 
and  got  a  shout  that  sent  them  out  of  the  otRce 
on  the  run. 

The  next  intruder  was  Father  Lawrence  himself 
and  Mr.  Gabriel  rose  to  meet  him  with  the  anxious 
question  in  his  e}'es. 

Father  Lawrence  shook  his  head  sadly.  "I  fear 
there  is  no  ground  for  hope,"    said  he. 

"•\Vh\- do  \-ou  think  so?"  said  M.  Gabriel.  "Sit 
down  ;    and  tell  me  all  about  it." 

Father  Lawrence  sat  down  and  began  : 

"We  went  from  here  directly  to  Regalia,  and 
found  Mosb}'  and  his  men  still  there.  Most  of  them 
were  drunk,  but  some  were  sober,  who  swore  by  all 


86  ELISE. 

in  heaven  and  earth,  that  they  had  seen  nothing  of 
the  child,  and  I  think  they  told  the  truth  ;  we  search- 
ed a  little  around  the  country  but  the  telegrams  had 
arrived  there  the  day  before  and  all  had  been  look- 
ing for  the  child  without  avail,  so  we  came  slowly 
back  ;  stopping  every  two  or  three  miles  to  inquire, 
but  no  one  had  seen  them.  We  found  traces  of  a 
camp,  which  might  have  been  theirs,  or  not,  we 
could  not  tell"  —  here  he  paused  and  M.  Gabriel 
said  : 

"Had  you  any  reasons,  which  led  you  to  think 
them  drowned  ?" 

"Yesterday,  at  noon,  said  Father  Lawrence,  open- 
ing his  bag,  one  of  the  men  fished  out  of  the  river  this 
hat  and  this  bundle.  He  drew  out  of  his  bag  Jacque's 
hat,  and  a  bundle  tied  up  with  a  gray  bandanna 
handkerchief;  opening  it,  he  showed  a  little  grey 
traveling  dress,  with  a  broad  hat  and  plumes,  too 
easily  recognized  as  belonging  to  Elise. 

"But  how?  why?"  said  M.  Gabriel,  bewildered. 

"We  cannot  tell,  it  must  remain  a  myster}-,  said 
the  priest. 

M.  Gabriel  buried  his  face  in  hands. 

"My  poor  child  !  my  poor  little  girl  I"  he  groan- 
ed. "Oh  Father,  for  the  love  of  God,  take  these 
things  away,  I  cannot  bear  to  see  them,  and  come 
back  this  evening  and  tell  me  what  to  telegraph  to 
her  father,  I  must  have  time  to  think  first." 

"God  comfort  and  guide  you."  said   Father  Law- 


ELISE.  87 

rence,   as  with  tender,  reverent  hands,  he  replaced 
the  articles  in  his  bag  and  left  the  office. 

"How  can  I  telegraph  Henri?"  soliloquized  the 
poor  uncle.  "What  a  message  to  meet  him  in  New 
York,  he  will  never  forgive  me  for  making  him  go 
on  to  New  York.  Her  clothing  done  up  in  a  bun- 
dle !  Why  was  that?"  and  the  thought  of  his  dear 
little  niece  in  the  hands  of  the  guerillas  caused  him 
to  bow  his  head  in  his  hands,  and  groan  aloud. 

Again  two  figures  darkened  the  door  of  his  office  ; 
slightly  glancing  up,  he  saw  two  beggars,  as  he 
thought,  standing  in  the  door-way, 

"Nothing  for  you,"  he  shouted  savagely. 

What  a  relief  to  an  aching  heart  is  sometimes  an 
outbreak  of  temper. 

The  next  minute  he  was  nearly  upset  by  a  small 
figure  springing  into  his  arms,  his  hat  knocked  off, 
and  himself  nearly  strangled  by  a  pair  of  little  arms 
around  his  neck,  while  rapturous  kisses  stopped  his 
mouth. 

"Oh  you  bad,  bad  uncle,  how  could  }'Ou  greet  me 
so  1"  cried  Elise  reproachfully. 

Springing  to  his  feet,  he  held  her  off  at  arm's 
length,  gasping  and  staring  at  her  and  Mademoiselle. 
The  revulsion  of  feeling  was  too  much  for  him.  He 
could  only  stammer. 

"Why  !  why  !  who  I  where  I  sweet  mother  I  where 
did  you  drop  from?" 

Then  suddenly  throwing  her  one  side,  he  glanced 


88  ELISK. 

at  the  clock,  then  rushed  to  the  sidewalk,  and  hailed 
a  passing  cab.  The  driver  hesitated,  wondering  if 
the  man  was  crazy,  but  M.  Gabriel  did  not  stop  for 
explanations  but  ran  back  to  the  otiice  and  caught 
Elise  bv  the  arm,  shouting  to  the  governess  in  an  ex- 
cited tone  : 

"Come,  come  quickly,  there's  barely  time,"  and 
pulling  them  along,  thrust  them  into  the  cab. 

"Double  fares  if  you  reach  the  New  York  boat  in 
time,"  he  shouted  to  the  suspicious  cab  driver.  The 
man  understood  that,  and  lashed  his  poor  horses,  as 
M.  Gabriel  jumped  in,  slammed  the  door  after  him, 
and  finally  turned  and  demanded  an  explanation. 

This  forthcoming,  he  turned  to  Elise  saying  : 

"Well,  dear  child,  you  have  come  barely  in  time. 
Your  stateroom  and  passage  are  engaged  on  to-day's 
steamer,  and  a  friend  of  mine  going  to  New  York, 
has  promised  to  see  you  safe  in  3our  father's  arms." 

"  Oh  uncle  I  "  she  exclaimed,  "  I  must  have  some 
clothes  first." 

"Indeed,  Monsieur,  llie  child  cannot  travel  like 
this,"  remonstrated  the  goNcrness. 

"True."  said  he  looking  at  her  ruefull}'.  She  is 
in  a  state  to  be  sure,  and  Father  Law^rence  carried 
off  her  clothes;  but  you  see  }-our  father  will  be  so 
disappointed,  and  I  don't  believe  there  will  be  an- 
other passenger  boat  through,  until  this  accursed 
war  is  over. 

"Papa  will  be  disappointed?  Does  he  expect    me 


ELISE.  8^ 

on  this  boat?  Then  I  shall  go  I"  said  Elise,  but  as  she 
glanced  down  on  the  torn,  old  wrapper,  and  at  the 
little  kid  shoes,  from  which  a  naked  toe  protruded, 
her  dark  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  But,  my  dear,"  expostulated  the  dismayed 
governess. 

"Whyte  has  a  child  just  about  her  age,"  said  her 
uncle,  "they  will  be  sure  to  rig  her  out." 

Just  then  the}'  drove  down  the  wharf  on  the 
gallop;  the  last  gong  had  sounded,  "All  aboard," 
and  the  men  had  started  to  pull  in  the  gang  plank; 
they  hesitated  at  the  sight  of  the  cab,  and  M.  de  la 
Roche  throwing  open  the  cab  door,  seized  the  poor 
shrinking  child,  and  passed  her  up  on  the  deck  to  a 
tall  gentleman,  calling  out  at  the  same  time: 

"Here  she  is,  Whytc,  just  in  time." 

Then  springing  back  to  the  wharf,  the  gang  plank 
was  drawn  in,  and  the  steamer  slid  slowly  out  of  her 
mooring. 

Poor  little  Elise  :  what  shame  are  you  bearing  now, 
for  the  love  of  that  dear  Father  !  There  she  stood  on 
the  deck  the  "observed  of  all  observers."  Her  blue 
Mother  Hubbard  had  been  wet,  soiled,  and  torn  in 
her  adventures,  until  it  was  nothing  more  than  a 
dirty  rag.  The  yellow  sunbonnet,  bereft  of  a  string, 
hung  limply  around  her  face  and  was  tied  to  one  side 
of  the  cape.  The  little  pink  toes  stuck  out  of  the  kid 
boots,  which  were  not  made  for  the  usage  they  had 
lately  recived.     There  she  stood,  alone,  in  the  midst 


90  ELISE. 

of  a  crowd  of  fashionabl}'  dressed  people  who  had 
been  attracted  by  the  bustle  of  getting  her  on  board 
in  time,  her  head  hanging  down,  her  sweet  face  merci- 
fully hidden  by  the  big  sunbonnet,  and  so  covered 
with  shame  and  confusion  that  she  could  hardly 
see. 

M.  Gabriel,  with  a  great  sigh  of  relief  got  back 
into  the  cab  with  Mademoiselle.  She,  filled  with 
admiration  at  the  courage  and  generosity  of  the 
brave  child,  resolved  to  follow  her  example,  and 
directed  him  to  drive  her  to  the  Convent  of  Mercy, 
resolved  not  to  delay  for  a  minute  longer  the  follow- 
ing of  her  vocation. 

As  they  drove  along,  she  related  the  story  of  their 
adventures,  begged  her  companion  to  see  the  cap- 
tain of  the  packet,  and  attend  to  the  fuueral  of  poor 
Jacques.  M.  Gabriel  listened,  with  many  an  exclama- 
tion of  surprise  and  thanksgiving,  and  left  the  gover- 
ness at  the  convent  door,  with  a  sum  of  mone}'  in 
her  hand  that  might  well  cover  her  with  embarrass- 
ment. 

We,  too,  will  leave  them  at  the  convent,  for  never 
again  will  their  li\  es  touch  that  of  our  little  heroine 
in  the  course  of  the  story  which  we  are  telling. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


LUCILLE. 

We  left  our  little  girl  standing  among  a  crowd 
of  passengers  on  the  deck  of  the  north-bound 
steamer,  in  a  very  pitiable  condition,  in  the  midst  of 
the  amused  and  curious  glances  of  the  passengers. 
Standing  next  the  tall  gentleman,  to  whose  care  she 
had  been  so  unceremoniously  committed,  stood  a 
fashionabl}'  dressed  lady  with  eyeglasses,  and  a  little 
girl,  about  the  age  of  Elise,  with  a  French  maid. 

The  gentleman  stared  at  Elise,  aghast  and  dis- 
mayed, while  his  wife,  for  it  was  she  who  was  near 
him  with  the  glasses,  fairly  glared  at  her  through 
them,  and  then  turned  to  her  husband  for  an  explana- 
tion, with  a  look  that  made  him  quail. 

"Who  is  that  person?"  she  said  haughtih'  "Do 
you  know?" 

The  gentleman  fidgeted  a  little,  looked  about 
helplessly  for  protection,  and  finally  said,  nervously : 

"Well,  really  I  don't  know,  I  can't  tell  —  I  think  it 
must  be  Mademoiselle  de  la  Roche," 

"That  I  Mademoiselle  de  la  Roche?"  said  the  lady. 


92  ELISE. 

The  child  glanced  up  at  her  and  then  around  her, 
she  felt  like  a  hunted  animal  surrounded  by  foes. 
But  she  bravely  conquered  the  impulse  to  flv  and 
hide  herself  anywhere,  an3'\vhere,  only  to  be  alone  ; 
and,  swallowing  the  great  lump  in  her  throat,  she  said 
with  quiet  dignity : 

"Yes;  I  am  Mademoiselle  de  la  Roche,  but  I  am 
a  refugee,  and  have  lost  my  clothes." 

This  declaration,  bi-ought  forth  a  burst  oflauu'hter 
from  the  bystanders,  and  Mrs.  Whyte,  with  ill-con- 
concealed  displeasure,  motioned  to  her  maid,  and 
said  : 

"Take  the  child  below  for  'goodness'"  sake.'  and 
try  to  make  her  presentable  with  any  thing  Gert- 
rude can  spare." 

If  Mrs.  \Vh3-te  was  annoyed  at  the  appearance  of 
the  child,  imagine  the  wrath  of  Lucille,  the  maid,  at 
having,  as  she  remarked,  "two  young  ones  on  her 
hands,  instead  of  one  to  care  for." 

Lucille  was  one  of  the  worst  of  that  justh'  much 
abused  class,  French  maids.  Hardened  and  deceit- 
ful, as  only  a  Catholic  can  l)e  who  has  lost  her 
faith  and  neglected  her  duty,  brought  up  in  a 
worldly  atmosphere,  bright  and  intelligent  by 
nature,  she  soon  learned  how  to  please  her  lady — 
"to  take  the  measure  of  her  foot,"  as  she  expressed 
it — and  to  get  along  with  as  little  to  do  as  possible, 
and  keep  a  fair  outside.  Out  of  temper  alread}-,  she 
was  glad  to  meet  with  an  object  upon  whom  she  could 


EIJSE  93 

safely  vent  her  wrath.  She  gave  the  child  a  look 
that  would  have  killed  her,  if  looks  could  kill,  and 
taking  her  by  the  shoulder,  pushed  her  ahead  down 
the  cabin  stairs. 

Gentleness  itself,  as  long  as  she  was  under 
observation,  but  no  sooner  did  they  reach  the  cabin, 
than  she  gave  Elise  a  shake  and  push,  which  nearly 
sent  the  poor  child  on  her  face.  Elise  recovered 
herself  in  great  displeasure,  and  tried  to  walk  in  a 
stately  and  dignified  manner,  her  blood  boiling  in 
her  veins,  and  her  little  head  high  in  the  air.  But 
it  is  not  easy  to  be  dignified,  when  one  is  getting  a 
continual  push  from  behind  which  forces  one  to  run, 
to  prevent  one's  self  from  falling.  Reaching,  at  last, 
the  door  of  the  stateroom,  the  final  push  sent  the 
child  in,  and  down  on  the  floor. 

Elise  picked  herself  up,  and,  alas !  lost  her 
temper. 

"How  dare  you  treat  me  in  this  manner?"  said  she 
turning  to  Lucille,  with  a  red  light  blazing  from  her 
eyes. 

"How  dare  I,  is  it,"  said  Lucille,  "Ell  let  you  soon 
see  how  I  dare.  Ell  let  you  know,  too,  that  I  wasn't 
hired  to  care  for  beggar  brats  like  you.  I  advise 
you  to  make  yourself  mighty  scarce  and  quiet,  if  you 
know  on  which  side  }-our  bread  is  buttered  or  }-ou'll 
find  yourself  a  pretty  tame  young'un  before  we  get 
to  New  York.  How  dare  I  indeed  !  You  bold,  sassy 
thing.      Here  get  out  of  my  way,"  and  she  gave  the 


94  ELISE. 

poor  child  a  box  on  the  ear  that  sent  her  away,  reel- 
ing from  the  stateroom  trunk  before  which  she  was 
standing,  and,  in  spite  of  the  protecting  sunbonnet, 
made  her  quite  dizzy  and  sick.  Stunned  and 
bewildered,  Elise  stood  passive  and  motionless,  with- 
out a  sound,  while  the  woman  unstrapped  and 
opened  the  trunk. 

"Take  oft"  those  rags,"  she  hissed  :  Lucille  always 
spoke  in  a  low,  often  inaudible  tone,  never  loud 
enough  to  draw  attention  from  outside.  "I'll  have 
enough  to  do  after  the  ship  gets  rolling,  and  every 
one  gets  sick,  without  looking  after  you." 

The  child  tried  to  obey,  but  was  so  frightened  and 
agitated  that  her  fingers  shook,  so  that  she  made 
little  progress,  and  when  Lucille  had  laid  out  some 
pretty  clothing  and  stood  up  to  put  it  on,  Elise  had 
not  yet  succeeded  in  removing  the  unfortunate 
wrapper.  With  an  exclamation  of  impatience  the 
maid  be<2"an  to  twitch  it  oft". 

"Cleaner  than  one  would  expect,"  was  the  com- 
ment. "  But  I'm  not  going  to  look  after  all  this 
hair,  so  the  quicker  it's  oft"  the  better."  She  lifted  one 
of  the  heav\'  braids,  and  drew  a  large  pair  of  scissors 
from  her  side  where  they  were  hanging. 

"Don't  you  dare  cut  my  hair,"  now  fairly  screamed 
Elise,  "My  papa  will  punish  you,  he  will  be  very 
angry  indeed  with  you." 

She  pulled  down  the  hand  of  the  astonished  maid, 
caught  the  shears  from  her,  and  threw  them  across 


ELISE.  95 

the  state  room  through  the  open  porthole,  where 
they  sank  into  the  water. 

Lucille,  now  angered  beyond  all  bounds,  threw  the 
fragile  child  into  the  berth,  pressing  her  face  into  the 
pillow  to  prevent  her  screaming,  seized  the  heavy 
trunk  strap,  and  gave  her  a  most  cruel  beating. 

There  was  no  need  of  stifling  her  cries,  for  Elise 
was  now  very  still  and  white.  Frightened  at 
last  by  the  silence,  the  woman  desisted,  and  Elise 
submitted  to  the  rest  of  her  toilet  without  a  word. 
Lucille  beginning  to  fear  she  had  gone  too  far,  let 
the  hair  alone,  and  when  at  last  all  was  finished,  she 
gave  her  a  little  push  saying  : 

"Be  off  now,  and  see  if  you  hav^e  learned  to 
behave  3'ourself." 

Elise  needed  no  second  bidding  ;  she  flew  from  her 
tormentor's  hand,  along  the  cabin  and  up  the  stairs. 

People  were  ever3'where.  Oh  I  w^here  should  she 
find  a  spot  where  she  would  be  alone?  Along  the 
deck  she  sped,  and  at  last  she  found  a  little  corner 
behind  a  life-boat,  where  she  would  be  screened  from 
observation.  She  threw  herself  down  on  an  immense 
coil  of  rope,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Papa,  papa  I"  she  moaned,  while  the  long,  shud- 
dering sobs,  shook  her,  convulsively,  and  the  physical 
pain  in  her  throat  became  almost  unbearable.  "Oh 
what  shall  I  do  ?  what  shall  I  do  ?'" 

She  felt  the  gentle  pressure  of  a  hand  on  her 
shoulder,  as  if  in  response,  and  a  voice  full  of  love, 
and  sympathy  which  penetrated  her  heart  said  : 


g6  EiJSE. 

"My  child,  my  poor  child  I  what  is  grieving  you 
so?" 

Starting  up,  full  of  shame  at  being  discovered,  she 
saw  a  nun,  in  the  dress  of  a  Sister  of  Mercy,  gazing 
down  on  her  with  eyes  full  of  tears  of  sympatlu'  and 
pity.  As  Elise  looked  up,  the  nun  held  out  her  arms 
and  Elise  sprang  into  them,  clinging  to  her  new 
friend  desperately  and  sobbing  violently. 

Sitting  down  on  the  coil  of  rope,  the  Sister  drew 
Elise  down  beside  her,  and  pressed  the  child's  head  to 
her  heart;  the  poor,  lonely,  little  one  felt  a  strange 
influence,  a  sensation  of  strength  and  comfort  stealing 
over  her;  and  was  instantly  cjuieted.  The  nun's 
companion  walked  a  little  outside  the  enclosure 
made  by  the  life-boat,  and  seating  herself  at  the 
entrance  to  keep  out  intruders,  opened  a  book  and 
began  to  read.  When  Elise  had  regained  her  self- 
control,  the  Sister  by  a  few  well-directed  questions, 
drew  the  whole  story  from  her. 

"I  will  never,  never  forgive  her,"  said  Elise  spring- 
ing to  her  feet  in  excitement,  her  pale  cheeks  now 
scarlet,  and  her  dark  eyes  flashing,  "and  Papa  will 
have  her  discharged  as  soon  as  we  get  into  New 
York." 

Without  a  word  the  nun  drew  the  child  down  b}' 
her  side  and  as  Elise  buried  her  head  in  the  Sister's 
lap  in  a  silent  despair  from  her  troubles,  she  felt  the 
sympathetic  tears  drop  on  her  head. 

"Oh,  my  Sister!  how  can  I,"  she  sobbed. 


ELISE.  97 

Still  no  answer,  only  the  mute  pressure  of  her 
head  against  the  Sister's  heart,  and  Elise  saw  before 
her  mental  vision,  once  more,  that  last  dreadful  night 
of  the  God-man  on  earth  ;  surrounded  by  the  brutal 
soldiers  in  an  underground  cave  ;  the  crown  of  thorns  ; 
the  eyes  blindfolded ;  the  reed  in  His  hand ;  the 
coarse  jeers,  and  taunts  :  ''and  I — and  I — who  was 
going  to  be  a  saint;"  she  said  in  an  undertone. 
Mutely  she  carried  the  nun's  hand  to  her  face,  and 
kissed  it :  not  a  word  was  spoken  but  all  was  under- 
stood. Thev  sat  there  a  long  time  in  silence  look- 
ing out  on  the  water. 

Suddenlv  Lucille  appeared  before  them.  The  com- 
panion Sister  rose  to  let  her  pass. 

"My  ladv  wishes  Mademoiselle  de  la  Roche  to 
attend  her  at  dinner,"  she  said  with  an  obsequious 
smile   and  courtes}'. 

"Yes;  I  will  come,"  said  the  child  simply  and 
rose  directh'  on  her  feet.  She  was  rather  white 
and  unsteady,  after  her  violent  excitement  and  Sis- 
ter Felicitas,  for  so  we  may  call  her,  arranged  her 
dress  with  lox'ing  little  touches. 

"Ma}-  I  come  back?"  said  the  child,  gazing  be- 
seechinglv  into  her  face. 

'•Bv  all  means,"  said  the  nun,  with  a  smile,  that 
brought  hope   and  courage  to  the  child's  heart. 

Elise  walked  quietl)-  along  the  deck  after  Lucille, 
her  eyes  were  cast  down,  and  she  seemed  hardly 
conscious  of  Lucillc's  presence.     When  she  reached 


98  ELISE. 

the  stairs  she  stopped  and  turned  around  to  see  if  the 
Sister  were  looking  after  her;  she  was,  and  smiled 
and  nodded  reassuringly ;  the  child  went  on  with  a 
radiant  face. 

"What  makes  you  look  so  happy?"  said  Lucille, 
curiously. 

"The  Sister!  "  said  Elise  simply,  "  she  and  I  are 
friends  now,  you  know." 

Lucille  looked  at  her  wonderingly.  She  kept  a 
little  behind  the  child  muttering  to  herself: 

"  You  better  be  cautious,  Lucille,  strange 
child  this ;  who  knows  what  friends  she'll  make 
next,  and  the  nun  looked  at  me  sharp  enough,  to 
be  sure." 

They  entered  the  long  cabin  where  already  the 
passengers  were  dining.  Mr.  Whyte  had  secured 
seats  at  the  foot  of  the  captain's  table.  The  table 
was  nearest  the  cabin  door,  and  Mr.  Wh}te  was  at 
the  foot  opposite  the  captain ;  at  his  right  hand  sat 
his  wife,  with  the  two  children  directly  opposite 
them,  and  at  Mr.  Whyte's  left,  were  two  young 
ladies  who  were  returning  to  their  home  in  New 
York  after  a  tour  South,  with  their  uncle,  a  stout 
elderly  gentleman,  very  precise  and  nervous. 
Lucille  turned  the  saloon  chair  just  below  Gertrude 
Whyte  for  Elise,  placed  her  in  it,  adjusting  her  nap- 
kin in  the  most  motherly  and  solicitous  manner,  and 
then  stood,  deferentially,  behind  the  two  children  to 
attend  to  their  wants,  never  dreaming  but  that  which 


ELISE.  99 

Mrs.  Whyte  whispered  across  the  table,  was  any- 
thing more  than  was  justly  her  due. 

"Perfectly  invaluable,  quite  a  treasure  I  assure 
you." 

Gertude  Whyte  was  a  very  bright-looking  child, 
with  a  kind  and  generous  heart,  but  was  ver)-  much 
spoiled  by  the  misfortune  of  being  the  only  child  of 
rich  parents.  She  turned,  and  looked  admiringly  at 
Elise,  as  she  sat  down,  and  said  : 

"How  nicely  you  look  in  my  dress."  Then  see- 
ing the  tear-stained  face,  she  added  :  "Has  Lucille 
been  scolding  you  ?  Don't  you  mind,  I  never  do. 
Just  say  you'll  tell  papa,  and  that  stops  her  right 
away.  /  like  you  ever  so  much,  and  I  like  to  have 
you  wear  m)^  things." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Elise  rather  faintly,  and  then, 
gazing  on  her  intently  asked:  "Why  do  you  like 
me?" 

"Oh  I  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Gertrude, 
composedly.  "I  always  know  if  I'm  going  to  like 
people  and  I'm  going  to  make  you  my  friend.  I  am 
going  back  north  to  school  this  year.  You'd  have 
something  to  cry  for,  if  you  were  going  to  school." 

"Why  don't  you  like  it?"  said  Elise,  "I  always 
wished  so  much  that  I  could  go." 

"Just  you  try  it,  once,"  said  Gertrude.  "Did  you 
know  I  kept  a  diary?  Now  I  suppose  you  are  not 
old  enough  to  keep  one. 

"I  never  had  one,"  said  Elise. 


lOO  ELISE. 

"Can  \-ou  read  mine?"  .said  Gertrude  pulling  a 
small  sized  book  from  her  bag,  which  hung  at  her 
side.  You  know  you  are  my  friend  and  )'Ou  ma)' 
if  you  want  to. 

Oh;  yes  I"  said  Elise,  "ma}'  I?'' 

"Yes;"  said  Gertrude,"  and  that  will  tell  you  how 
much  I  like  to  go  to  school.  You  see  I  got  it  at 
Christmas  and  I  began  to  keep  it  on  New  Year's 
Day;  but  I  haven't  written  anything  in  it  for  ex^er 
so  long." 

The  two  heads  bent  together  over  the  pages,  and 
Elise  read  as  follows : 

Jan.  1. — new  Years  da}',  i  am  goat  to  kepe  a  ilair\ 
this  }  ear,  my  father  says  it  will  lielp  vou  in  speling  and 
langwidge  to  kepe  a  dairy  but  I  dont  see  how  it  can  help 
eny  one  when  you  can't  liev  it  kerrected,  and  \ou  can't 
hev  it  kerrected  becos  all  youre  seacrets  are  in  it  so 
Noliody  must  see  it.  the  Girls  in  school  all  steel  their 
dairvs  from  each  other  and  rede  them,  the  other  one 
pretends  she  don't  want  you  to  -rede  it  an  all  the  time 
shes  jest  dyin  to  hev  you  so  you  can  tieze  her  about 
things. 

Jan.    2.      i   wisht  i   dident  hev  to  go  back  to   school. 

ime  hevin  fun  no  end.    .    .   T came  Over  to  my  house 

today,  we  are  going  back  together. 

J'^'i  3-  got  up  this  morniu,  lied  the  tooth  Ake. 
wisht  i  was  dead,  mamma  sed  i  coiddnt  hev  eny  More 
Candy  while  i  was  at  home,  an  it  wasnt  the  Cand\' 
gave  it  to  me  at  all  it  was  jest  thinking  of  going  Back  to 
scliool. 


ELISE.  lOI 

Jan.  7.  I  am  back  agen  at  school,  the  Girls  are  all 
here  I  couldnt  kepe  my  dairy  these  last  days  because 
com  in  back  hear  and  Every  think  we  hed  Fun  las 
nite.    !    !    ! 

Jan.  .  .  .  got  up  this  mornin  and  went  to  mass  the 
chapel  was  veiy  pritty  they  Hed  lots  of  flours  an  things 
i  ges  i  got  marked  for  lafin  i  doant  care,  so  there !  ! 
i  hate  this  old  school  and  my  father  wanted  Me  to  get  a 
Distingwish  this  Month  too  they  Can  kepe  there  old 
Destingwish. 

Jan.    .   ,    .     las  nite  me   an  T &  w hed  som 

sandvvitches  and  cokonut  cakes  an  we  dident  know  how 
to  get  out  of  the  dormitory  to  eet  them  Rut  we  tride  and 
the  bords  creek  an  Sister  got  up  an  Kought  us.  i  gess  she 
gave  us  about  50  offen  an  she  tuk  all  the  things  an  said  she 
wud  give  them  to  the  jDOore  and  we  hev  to  go  to  the 
Punish  Class ! 

Jan.  ...  i  gess  we're  gon't  to  hev  our  retreet  by 
ourselves  becos  we  Distracted  the  yong  Ladys  last  year, 
it  won't  be  eny  fun.  M —  rote  Me  a  note  at  Study 
houi^e  and  Sister  tuke  it.  she's  too  smart  ennyways  she 
always  nos  every  think,  i  think  she  red  the  note  becos 
she  kinder  laffed. 

Jan.    .    .    .     we  were   Skatin  an  T fell  down  jest 

when  she  was  try  in  to  show  off  Becos  Sister  wos  in  the 
winda  lookin  out  inie  glad  of  it  shes  too  smart  i  mean 
T is. 

Jan.  .  .  .  the  perfessor  was  jest  as  cross  as  he  could 
be  to-day  an  he  mad  Us  sing  One  thing  about  a  hundred 
times  Over  an  he  sed  he  couldent  incert  the  pointer 
between  my  teeth !  jest  as  if  ennybody  cud  sing  with  a 


I02  ELISE. 

mouthful  of  pointer !  !  !  i  hate  singin  anyhow  my 
father  sed  if  Anybody  could  listen  to  me  trying  to  sing 
she  must  have  good  nerve,  i  gess  the  perfessers  nerves 
are  alwright. 

Feb.  .  .  .  retreet  is  over  an  we  hed  the  best  one  an 
now  ime  goin  to  be  good  becos  i  sed  i  wud  we  hed 
twilite  talks  an  every^  thing  the  young  ladys  hed  only 
Ours  wos  better  an  i  wisht  we  didn't  hev  to  go  in 
with  them  eny  more. 

Feb.  .  .  .  lost  my  destingwesh  again  i  doant  care 
ime  never  Goin  to   try   agen  as  long  as  i  live     i  only 

jest    put  the  dust   brush  in  R 's  bed  &  when  her  feat 

got  agenst  it  she  screached  and  Sister  ast  who  did  it  an  i 
sed  i  did  and  then  she  marked  me.  .  .  .  she  likes  to 
mark  me  any  how  She  takes  every  chance  she  gets." 

Here  Lucille  interrupted,  and  insisted  on  the 
attention  of  the  children  to  their  dinner.  In  the 
meantime  their  elders  were  also  too  much  engaged 
in  conversation  to  notice  them.  With  an  exclama- 
tion of  admiration,  Elise  gave  back  the  little  book 
and  vainly  tried  to  eat. 

"By  the  way  !"  said  Mr.  Whyte  to  the  stout  gentle- 
man, "did  you  know  that  we  have  a  Catholic  priest 
on  board  and  a  Jesuit  too,  I  believe." 

"No  !"  said  the  old  man  in  an  agitated  tone,  "may 
the  Lord  preserve  us  !"  and  he  looked  reproachfully 
at  the  captain,  "but  one  cannot  prevent  it,  they  are 
everywhere,  everywhere." 

"  Fine  men,  fine  men  ;"  said  the  captain,  "  I  often 
get  one  from  their  college  in  New  Orleans,  or  from 


ELISE.  lOJ 

the  missions  down  the  coast.  This  one  is  Father 
Grey  from  BeHse,  British  Honduras,  I  know  him 
well.  He  is  returning  to  England,  you  will  hear 
him  preach  next  Sunday,  and  you  will  like  him,  1 
think." 

The  ladies  looked  pleased  and  interested,  but  the 
old  gentleman  said : 

"God  forbid!"  most  fervently,  and  turning  toward 
the  VVhytes,  said  in  a  confidential  tone  across  the 
table : 

"If  I  had  known  there  was  a  Jesuit  on  board,  I 
would  not  have  come  even  though  my  tickets  were 
taken,  and  this  the  last  passenger  boat.  Do  you 
know  that  I  discovered  at  our  boarding  house  in 
New  Orleans,  that  the  very  boy  who  brought  the 
milk  was  a  Jesuit,  and  I  warned  the  lady  of  the 
house,  but  she  would  not  listen  to  me." 

"  Oh!  no;"  she  said,  "you  must  be  mistaken.  I 
have  known  his  mother  many  years,  and  she  is  a 
most  respectable  woman." 

"And  by  that  same,"  said  the  old  gentleman  in  an 
agitated  tone,  "I  knew  she  was  a  Jesuit  too." 

"A  woman  Jesuit  I  said  Mr.  Whyte  astonished, 
"are  there  such  things  as  female  Jesuits?" 

"Plenty  of  them,"  said  the  old  gentleman  earnestly, 
"plenty  of  them,  and  they  are  everywhere.  As  to 
the  captain,"  sinking  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  and 
winking  mysteriously,  "I  felt  it  from  the  first,  I  shall 
watch  him,  we  don't  know  what  his  plans  are." 


104  ELISE. 

Here  the  steamer  gave  a  sudden  lurch,  which  sent 
the  dishes  sHding,  and  caused  another  laugh,  but  as 
the  pitching  motion  kept  up,  after  this  the  laugh 
subsided,  and  many  grew  suddenly  sober.  The  old 
gentleman  got  very  white,  excused  himself,  and  left 
the  table. 

Elise  who  had  eaten  nothing,  but  was  trying  to 
taste  her  soup,  became  so  pale  as  to  alarm  Lucille, 
who,  after  a  few  whispered  words  to  Mrs.  Whyte 
turned  the  child's  chair,  removed  her  napkin,  and 
led  her  across  the  cabin,  tenderly.  When  outside 
she  gave  her  a  little  shake,  saying : 

"Go  up  now,  and  stay  with  the  nuns,  and  don't 
come  near  me  with  your  sickness,  unless  you  want 
as  good  as  you  got  this  morning,  and  more  of  it." 

Then  she  turned  and  left  her  with  a  look  of  intense 
aversion.  The  child  was  at  the  foot  of  the  cabin 
stairs,  she  caught  the  railing  of  the  stair-case,  and 
clung  to  it. 

"What  a  dreadful  thing  is  sea-sickness,"  said 
one  of  the  young  ladies.  "  Poor  uncle !  he  will 
have  to  watch  the  captain  from  his  berth  the  rest 
of  the  voyage;  he  firmly  beUeves  that  all  the 
world  are  Jesuits,  and  that  they  have  but  one  object 
in  life,  which  is  our  conversion.  Will  you  see  how 
the  passengers  drop  out?  You  will  see  me  follow- 
ing them  soon.  Last  time  we  went  up,  I  was  afraid 
I  was  going  to  die,  and  then  I  rapidl}'  became 
afraid  that  I  wasn't,   and   offered   my   sister  all   my 


ELISE.  105 

worldly  goods  and  chattels  if  she  would  throw  me 
overboard." 

Truly  of  all  ills  which  are  not  generally  considered 
dangerous,  sea-sickness  is  the  worst  and  the  one  for 
which  you  receive  the  least  sympathy.  As  one 
has  said  : 

"You  walk  along  the  cabin,  having  nothing 
stationary  to  compare  yourself  \vi,.h,  are  not  consci- 
ous of  much  motion,  when  suddenly  you  find  your- 
self apparently  weighing  six  hundred  pounds,  and 
your  feet  so  heavy,  that  you  can  hardly  lift  them 
from  the  floor.  This  is  bad  enough,  but  the  next 
moment  is  much  worse,  when  you  find  yourself  light 
as  a  feather,  your  gait  very  uncertain,  quite  unable 
to  put  your  foot  where  you  want  to,  and  oh  !  oh  ! 
such  a  dreadful,  intolerable,  'goneness'  on  each  side 
of  your  stomach,  just  above  your  hips;  the  lines 
from  each  side  of  your  nose  to  your  mouth  grow 
sharp  and  pronounced,  a  blue  color  begins  to  shade 
your  face,  here  and  there.  If  you  lie  down,  that 
dreadful  feeling — which,  perhaps,  'goneness'  very  in- 
adequately expresses  —  comes  back,  whenever  the 
vessel  sinks.  If  you  are  wise,  you  go  on  deck,  where 
the  fresh,  salt  air  seems  to  harden  you,  better  to  sit 
there,  even  in  a  drenching  rain,  rather  than  go 
down  to  the  misery,  and  smells  below.  Most 
people,  however,  go  to  their  berths,  and  there,  night 
and  day,  make  that  dreadful  sound,  half  way  between 
a  cough  and  a  roar. 


io6 


ELISE. 


Words  won't  express  the  feelings,  however,  and  I 
■don't  know  that  I  ever  saw  a  more  truly  miserable, 
pitiable,  woe-begone  creature,  than  a  sea-sick  man, 
or  woman." 


CHAPTER   X. 


THE  JESUIT. 

Our  little  girl  continued  clinging  to  the  balusters, 
quite  unable  to  see  or  walk.  She  was  talking  to 
herself  a  little  : 

"How  queer  I  feel,  if  some  one  would  onl}-  help 
me  a  little  to  go  to  the  Sisters.  Perhaps  I  am  going 
to  die  now,  like  Jacques,  and  Gertrude,  but  I  must 
not  die  until  I  get  to  New  York  for  papa  would  be  so 
sorry." 

Suddenly  she  found  herself  lifted  in  the  strong 
arms  of  the  captain. 

"What  is  the  matter  little  one?  I  fear  the  sea  is 
treating  you  very  shabbily,"  said  he. 

"Will  you  take  me  to  the  Sisters,  please?  "she 
said  faintly,  and  her  head  dropped  on  his  shoulder. 

"The  two  nuns  !"  said  the  captain,  rather  alarmed, 
"I  wonder  where  I  shall  find  them?" 

"I  think  I  can  find  them,  captain,"  said  a  voice 
behind  him, —  "and  lean  relieve  you  of  your  burden 
if  you  will  permit  me?" 


I08  ELISE. 

It  was  the  much-dreaded  Jesuit,  who  had  been 
watching  Lucille  and  Elise,  and  now  came  forward 
to  offer  liis  services. 

"Eh  I  Father?"  said  the  captain  ;  "is  the  little  one 
one  of  your  flock,  then?" 

"I  think  she  must  be,"  said  Father  Grey,  "are 
you  not,  my  child?" 

"Yes  ;  Father,"  said  Elise  confidently,  and  then 
closing  her  eyes  again,  as  the  deadly  faintness  over- 
came her. 

Greatly  touched,  Father  Grey  took  her  from  the 
captain,  and  carrieci  her  up  the  stairs,  and  soon  came 
upon  the  two  nuns  seated  in  a  quiet  spot  with  work 
and  reading. 

Father  Grey  was  an  Englishman,  very  tall  and 
thin,  with  a  decided  stoop  in  his  shoulders,  caused 
by  long  study;  with  dark  blue,  penetrating  eyes,  very 
deeply  set,  which  seemed  to  read  your  soul.  As  he 
came  up  to  the  nuns  bearing  the  child  in  his  arms, 
they  arose,  and  Sister  Felicitas  with  her  sweet,  low 
voice,  full  of  concern,  said  : 

"Why,  Father  you  have  brought  back  our  little 
girl  to  us,  is  she  ill?" 

"It  is  well  there  was  some  one  to  bring  her  back," 
said  he,  rather  sternly,  supposing  her  under  the  care 
of  the  Sisters.  "I  found  her  carried  by  the  captain, 
where  she  had  fainted  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs." 

A  kind  lady  passenger  offered  a  steamer  chair  and 
rugs,    which    Sister    Felicitas,    quickly    and    deftly 


ELISE.  109 

arranged  for  the  child,  who  gratefully  sank  back  in 
them,  looking  so  white  that  the  nuns  were  alarmed.. 

"Do  not  mind,"  said  Elise,  smiling  up  at  Sister 
Felicitas,  "I  shall  be  better  now." 

"How  did  she  happen  to  be  left  so  alone?"  said  the 
Father. 

Her  story  was  quickly  told  to  the  sympathetic 
priest,  who  amazed,  and  deeply  interested  could 
hardly  credit  it. 

"Who  is  the  Jacques  of  whom  she  speaks?"  said  he. 

"I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  the  Sister  ;  "  I  do  not 
think  she  knows  anyone  on  board  but  the  Whytes, 
and  ourselves.  She  may  have  been  a  little  wander- 
ing." And  she  looked  anxiously  at  her  little  charge 
who  was  gazing  dreamily  at  the  clouds,  paying  no 
attention  to  anyone  around  her. 

"Well,"  said  Father,  "look  after  her  now,  and 
leave  her  no  longer  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the 
wicked." 

Sister  Felicitas  sat  down  by  Elise  and  began  bath- 
ing her  head  with  cologne,  proffered  by  the  same 
charitable  hand  that  gave  the  chair — God  bless 
them,  they  are  always  there — and  soon  had  the  satis- 
faction of  seeing  her  fall  into  a  deep  sleep. 

Not  long  after,  Lucille  appeared  and  stood  looking 
at  the  sleeping  child  with  a  singular  expression  ot 
aversion  and  fear. 

"My  lady  sent  me  to  look  after  the  child,"  said 
she. 


no  ELISE. 

"I  am  sure  you  must  have  much  to  do,"  said 
Sister  Felicitas.  "Do  you  think  Mrs.  Whyte 
would  leave  the  child  in  our  care  for  the  voyage." 

"You  are  most  kind,  my  Sister,"  said  Lucille 
eagerly,  "and  my  lady  will  be  greatly  obliged  ;  she 
is  down  in  her  berth  now ;  and  is  safe  to  stay  there 
till  we  reach  New  York ;  between  her  and  Miss 
■Gertrude  I  am  nearly  run  off  my  feet,  let  alone  a 
strange  child  like  that,  who  has  the  most  fearful 
temper  of  any  child  I  ever  saw,  and  would  not 
think  twice  of  pushing  one  overboard  when  she  gets 
in  a  rage." 

Sister  Felicitas  glanced  at  the  maid,  with  a  look 
that  caused  her  to  cast  down  her  eyes  and  turn 
scarlet. 

"You  may  tell  your  lady,"  she  said,  "that  if  she 
will  entrust  the  child  to  our  care,  she  need  have  no 
further  anxiety  for  her  through  the  voyage." 

"Thanks,  my  Sister,"  said  Lucille  more  humbly, 
"I  will  put  some  of  Miss  Gertrude's  clothes  for  her  in 
her  stateroom,  number  fourteen,  next  yours." 

She  then  courtesied,  and  walked  off,  muttering  to 
Tierself : 

"  Lucky  thing  for  you  Lucille  ;  the  less  you  have 
to  do  with  that  youngster  the  better  for  you  in  this 
world,  or  the  next.  How  the  nun  looked  at  me  to 
be  sure.  I  suppose  the  child  told  her  everything. 
The  baby  looked  so  white,  asleep  in  that  chair,  she 
jnight  as  well  have  been  in  her  coffin.     I'm  afraid 


ELISE.  Ill 

that  old  strap  left  its  marks  behind  it.  Good 
enough  for  her — I  wonder  if  I  shall  get  whacked  for 
beating  children,  down  below?" 

The  prospect  was  not  a  pleasant  one  to  contem- 
plate, and,  to  distract  her  mind,  Lucille  sought  out  a 
friend  she  had  made  of  the  stewardess,  and  together 
they  consoled  themselves  in  a  corner  over  a  little 
glass  of  "Eau  de  vie"  and  a  gossip  over  the  troubles 
of  this  life  in  general  and  their  own  in  particular. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


THE  SAILOR. 


When  Elise  awoke  the  sun  was  far  down  in  the 
West.  The  water  of  the  gulf  was  of  a  deep  indigo 
blue,  and  was  chopped  into  small  waves  by  a  brisk 
land  breeze,  with  occasional  white  caps.  Land  was 
in  sight  on  the  left,  a  rocky  coast,  deeply  indented 
with  bays  and  inlets.  The  rocks  looked  very  dark, 
but  over  all  a  light  haze  was  forming,  which  softened 
and  glorified  the  atmosphere,  as  the  rays  of  the  setting 
sun  shone  across  the  water,  turning  all  things  red. 
In  the  far  distance  were  rising  hills  wath  an  occasion- 
al group  of  stately  palms,  while  soft  white  clouds, 
now  tinged  with  crimson,  floated  in  the  distant  horizon. 
In  spite  of  the  breezes  there  was  a  soft  enervating 
feeling  in  the  air,  of  the  calm  night,  which  gave  one 
a  great  disinclination  to  move,  as  the  boat  swiftly 
sped  its  way  northward. 

The  nuns  had  finished  their  Office,  and  were  talk- 
ing earnestly  together  in  low  tones,  v^'hen  they  were 


ELISE.  113 

Startled  by  Elise  touching  Sister  Felicitas  on  the 
shoulder,  and  saying  eagerly  : 

"We  must  go  down,  there  is  a  soul  on  the  lower 
deck  who  needs  your  help." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  the  Sister,  "what  do  you 
mean?    You  have  been  asleep,  and  dreaming." 

The  child  stood  by  the  sister's  side,  and  now  took 
her  hand,  with  a  pleading,  earnest  look  in  her  dark 
eyes,  and  intense  face.  She  .had  grown  ver}^  thin, 
and  pale  within  the  past  few  weeks.  One  could  only 
see  the  soul  striving  to  escape  from  the  body,  which 
looked  too  transparent,  and  ethereal  to  hold  it  long. 
She  pulled  at  the  Sister's  hand,  and  drew  her  forward 
saying : 

"Oh,  come  I  there  is  but  little  time." 

The  Sister,  now  thoroughly  alarmed  for  her  little 
charge,  thought  best  to  humor  her  and  allow  her  to 
lead  them  down,  intending  to  take  her  to  the  state- 
room if  she  was  as  ill  as  she  feared.  Elise,  still 
clinging  to  the  nun,  went  down  stairs  to  the  lower 
deck,  and  then  aft,  till  they  came  to  a  little  cabin 
built  on  the  deck.  Elise  went  directly  up  to  this, 
and  tried  to  open  the  door,  but  the  captain  who  was 
standing  near  and  watching  her  with  much  surprise 
and  curiosity,  now  interfered,  and  said  : 

"Passengers  are  not  allowed  in  there,  little  lady." 

"Oh  yes;"  said  the  child  raising  her  dark,  plead- 
ing eyes  to  his  face,  "the  sick  man  needs  Sister, 
please  do  let  us  go  in." 


114  ELISE. 

"Have  you  been  in  there  before?"  said  the  captain 
amazed. 

"No,  no  ;  I  saw  him  in  there  when  I  was  coming 
up  the  stairs,"  said  the  child,  now  all  in  a  quiver  of 
impatience.  "He  wants  to  see  the  Sister,  and  there 
is  but  little  time." 

The  captain  looked  inquiringly  at  the  nuns. 
Sister  Felicitas  said  very  quietly  : 

"I  do  not  know  what  she  means,  but  I  fear  she  15 
very  ill.  I  think  I  had  better  take  her  to  her  state- 
room." 

"Oh  !  no,  Sister  dear,  indeed  I  am  not  ill,  the  man 
in  there  wants  you  truly  and  really,  just  open  the 
door,  please  captain,  and  you  will  see." 

"Well"  said  the  captain  slowly,  "there  certainly 
is  a  sick  sailor  in  there.  I  don't  know  whether  he  is 
a  Catholic,  or  not,  but  if  you  ladies  will  honor  him 
with  a  visit,  you  are  most  welcome  to  do  so.  I  will 
just  look  in  first,  and  see  if  all  is  in  order." 

He  stepped  inside  the  door,  and  soon  came  out, 
leaving  the  door  open  behind  him,  and  bowing  the 
nuns  permission  to  enter. 

On  a  low  cot  la}^  a  tall,  very  attenuated  man,  with 
a  red  bandanna  handkerchief  around  his  head.  He 
had  a  snow-white  beard  which  nearly  covered  his 
face.  His  dark  eyes  glittered  from  under  the  folds 
of  the  handkerchief,  as  he  saw  the  nuns  standing  in 
the  door. 

"Well;  what  is  it?  What  do  you  want  in  here?"' 
he  asked  in  sharp,  querulous  tones. 


ELISE.  115 

Sister  Felicitas  made  no  answer,  but  stepped  into 
the  cabin,  and  seated  herself  by  the  side  of  his  cot  on 
a  Httle  camp  stool. 

"G'vvay  from  here,  I  don't  want  to  see  the  likes 
of  you,  I  won't  be  pestered  about  religion.  Go,  go; 
I  tell  yer  !" 

The  nun  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  said  some- 
thing to  him  in  a  low  tone.  Her  companions  saw 
him  turn  toward  her  with  a  look  of  wonder,  and 
gaze  at  her  intently,  and  satisfied  with  that,  they 
turned  away. 

We  would  have  liked  long  ago  to  have  described 
Sister  Felicitas,  but  could  find  no  words.  Her  great 
charm  and  influence  over  others  lay  in  that  which  is 
unseen  and  indescribable,  a  grace  which  caused  her 
Sisters  to  say  that  her  presence  could  be  felt,  when 
she  entered  a  room,  without  seeing  her.  Her  eyes, 
not  often  seen,  were  grey-blue  Irish  eyes,  and  could 
express  all  she  wished  to  say,  without  speaking  ;  not 
observing  eyes,  though  little  escaped  their  notice,  but 
loving,  sympathetic  eyes,  which  drew  every  heart  to 
come  to  her  with  its  burden  of  sorrow.  As  Faber 
has  said  of  our  Blessed  Lady  : 

"They  were  every  where,  but  in  her  own  miseries.- 
They  were  lor  everyone  except  herself.  There 
seemed  no  effort  about  it.  It  was  her  way.  It 
came  natural  to  her  because  she  behaved  with  grace, 
as  if  it  really  was  a  nature  to  her.  As  the  moon 
reflects  the  light  of  the  sun,  without  the  least  trouble 


I  1 6  ELISE. 

to  herself,  and  beautifies  the  earth  without  any  ex- 
ertion, so  Mary  reflects  God,  and  gives  light  and 
shine  without  effort,  ahiiost  unconsciously,  as  if  it 
were  simply  her  business  to  be  luminous  and 
beautiful,  and  no  wonder   in  it  at  all." 

So  also  with  our  Sister.  She  lived  a  mortified  life  of 
love  and  entire  self-forgetfulness.  "A  true  Religious, 
and  consequently  a  perfect  lady,"  said  one  of  her 
who  knew  her  well.  Outwardly  she  was  tall,  very 
thin,  graceful  in  her  movements,  which  were  quick 
but  extremely  quiet.  One  on  whose  frail  shoulders 
all  laid  their  burden  and  went  away  with  new 
courage,  and  strength  in  their  hearts,  for  the  battle 
of  life.  Sister  Louise,  her  companion,  as  soon  as 
she  saw  that  the  sailor  was  not  likely  to  harm 
Sister  Felicitas,  turned  to  Elise,  and  said  : 

"Come  now,  you  and  I  will  help  her  with  our 
beads." 

Up  and  down  the  deck  they  paced  in  front  of  the 
cabin.  The  nun  hiding  her  rosary  under  her  big 
sleeves  and  saying  the  prayers  in  a  whisper  so  as 
not  to  attract  attention,  begging  aid  from  her  of 
whom  "Never  was  it  known  that  anyone  appealed  in 
vain." 

Then  sitting  down  on  a  bench  outside  the  door, 
they  waited  for  Sister  Felicitas  to  appear.  The 
■door  of  the  cabin  was  partly  open,  and  they  could 
see  that  the  sailor  held  the  crucifix  in  hand,  but  his 
face    was  hidden    from    them    by  the  Sister's    veil. 


ELISE.  117 

After  a  time  however,  Sister  Felicitas  turned  and 
appeared  at  the  door.  Tears  were  on  her  cheeks,  but 
her  face  was  radiant  with  solemn  joy. 

"Go,  dear,  and  call  Father  Grey,"  she  said  to 
Elise,  "he  is  ready  for  his  confession." 

Elise  needed  no  second  bidding,  she  went  off 
like  an  arrow  to  find  the  Jesuit  Father. 

The  two  nuns  sat  down  on  the  bench  again,  and 
Sister  Felicitas  turned  to  Sister  Louise  saying : 

"Oh,  my  Sister,  the  joy  of  leading  a  soul  from 
darkness  and  misery  to  light  and  peace,  what  jo}' 
can  equal  it  in  this  world?  And  that  it  should  be 
given  to  such  as  we." 

"Is  he  then  repentant?"  said  Sister  Louise. 

"Oh,  yes,  truly  and  deeply  repentant,  and  only 
anxious  to  make  reparation  for  the  past." 

"Will  he  then  li\'e  to  do  so?"  inquired  Sister 
Louise. 

"No,  the  finger  of  death  is  already  imprinted  on 
his  countenance,  he  has  but  a  short  time,  not  many 
hours,  I  should  say.  We  must  pray  for  him  that 
his  faith  fail  not.  Poor  man,  he  has  had  great 
trouble  and  sorrow." 

"How  strange;"  said  Sister  Louise,  "that  Elise 
should  know  anything  about  him.  She  seemed  too 
faint  to  see  anything  when  the  Father  brought  her 
up  the  stairs." 

"She  has  a  quick  eye,  and  loving  heart  for  all 
in  trouble,   I  think,"  said  Sister  Felicitas.     "Here 


Il8  ELISE. 

she  comes  to  tell  us  herself,"  as  Elise  came  along 
the  deck  leading  Father  Grey  by  the  hand.  She 
took  him  to  the  door  of  the  cabin,  and  he  went  in 
closing  the  door  behind  him. 

"So  you  found  the  Father?"  said  Sister  Felicitas, 
as  Elise  came  up  to  them. 

Elise  sat  down  by  her  side,  and  before  answering, 
laid  her  head  on  her  shoulder,  possessing  herself  of 
the  Sister's  hand,  which  she  held  tightly  between 
her  own. 

"Oh  yes,  my  Sister,  he  was  talking  to  some  of 
the  passengers,  but  he  was  not  vexed  with  me  for 
interrupting  him,  only  so  surprised  and  he  came 
right  along." 

"The  captain  says  that  'he  can  always  tell  a 
Jesuit  from  the  other  priests,  and  his  chief  reason 
is,  that  he  speaks  to  every  soul  on  board  the  ship, 
before  the  voyage  is  over,' "  laughed  Sister  Louise. 
Elise  now  looked  so  pale  and  exhausted  that 
Sister  Felicitas  begged  her  companion  to  get  some 
beef  tea  for  her  from  the  stewardess.  After  she  had 
gone,  the  Sister  turned  to  the  child  and  said  : 

"When  did  you  see  the  sick  man,  dear?'' 

Elise  looked  a  little  confused  and  said  :  "I  hardly 
know,  my  Sister,  I  think  I  must  have  seen  him 
when  Father  Grey  brought  me  up  stairs,  and  then — 
then,  I  supposed  I  dreamed  ;  for  I  thought  he  was 
sinking  in  the  water,  and  when  I  tried  to  go  to  him, 
I  could  not  stir,   and  on  looking  up,   I  saw  a  most 


ELISE.  119 

lovely  angel  at  my  side  who  pointed  to  you  :  then 
the  next  thing  I  remember,  I  was  teasing  you  to 
come  down  stairs  to  him. 

"Was  it  my  Angel  Guardian,  do  you  think, 
Sister?" 

"I  think  it  might  be,"  said  the  Sister  quietly. 

"Then  I  have  seen  him,  I  always  wanted  to  see 
him.  Oh  !  I  wish  he  would  come  again,  and  stay 
longer,  so  I  could  really  see  just  how  he  looks." 

"He  is  always  with  you,  you  know,  my  child, 
and  when  your  spiritual  eyes  are  opened,  you  will 
no  doubt  see  him  and  rejoice  with  him  over  one 
more  soul  saved  through  his  warning,"  said  Sister 
Felicitas,  who  gladly  welcomed  the  stewardess 
bringing  a  cup  of  hot  beef  tea.  She  was  accom- 
panied by  Sister  Louise,  who  held  the  cup,  and 
persuaded  the  child  to  drink  it. 

The  deck  on  which  the  cabin  was  built  was 
appropriated  to  the  steerage,  and  the  younger  of  the 
steerage  passengers  began  to  assemble  there  to  enjoy 
the  lovely  moonlight.  They  were  getting  rather 
noisy  now  ;  and  their  mirth  was  of  a  questionable 
character,  when  they  were  astonished  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  nuns  amongst  them. 

Sister  Louise  had  a  little  talk  with  them,  and  lind- 
ing  that  many  of  them  were  Catholics,  asked  Sister 
Felicitas  to  tell  them  about  the  sailor  who  was  dying 
so  near. 

She  did  so  in  such  a  simple,  pathetic  manner  that 


I20  ELISE. 

all  were  touched,  many  were  in  tears,  and  she 
finished  by  asking  them  to  join  in  singing  the 
Litany  of  Loretto  for  him. 

The  lassies  were  quite  ready,  but  the  lads  were 
shy  and  beginning  to  steal  off,  while  the  Sister  was 
teaching  them  a  simple  air  ;  but  when  they  began 
to  sing,  the  clear  soprano  of  the  young  voices,  to 
which  Sister  Louise  struck  in  thirds,  sounded  so 
sweetly  that  all  were  fain  to  stay  and  listen,  and 
finally  to  join,  until  a  strong,  yet  low  and  sweet 
chorus  seemed  to  fill  the  air,  and  attract  many 
listeners. 

The  ship  glided  along  as  smoothly  as  if  in  a  river, 
through  the  soft  bloom  of  the  summer  moonlight, 
and  gave  one  the  sensation  of  gliding  off  into  space. 

Before  they  had  finished  Father  Grey  joined  them 
with  a  clear,  sweet  tenor. 

When  the  Litany  was  over,  in  obedience  to  a 
motion  of  the  Father's  hand,  all  knelt,  and  the 
Father  said  : 

"Your  prayers  are  requested  for  the  repose  of  a 
soul  which  has  just  departed,"  and  then  began  the 
Rosary  for  the  Dead. 

As  they  rose  from  their  knees.  Sister  Felicitas 
said  to  him  : 

"I  did  not  think  it  w^ould  be  so  soon." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Father,  "and  in  peace." 

"Deo  Gratias,"  said  the  nun  fervently,  and  they 
separated  for  the  night. 


CHAPTER   XII. 


MISSIONS. 


A  Sunday  morning  at  sea.  A  quietness  in  the 
atmosphere,  unknown  on  ordinary  days.  A  peace 
in  the  depths,  of  the  blue  sky,  over  which  Hght  white 
clouds  floated  calmly.  A  lovely  summer  morning  to 
read  and  dream  on  the  deck,  and  yet  nearly  all 
were  assembled  in  the  main  saloon,  who  were  not 
obliged,  by  duty,  to  be  elsewhere,  and  the  few 
who  chose  the  smoking  room  and  cards  by  prefer- 
ence. The  loveliness  of  the  sky  and  ocean  round, 
might  well  have  drawn  the  hearts  of  all  to  learn 
something  of  the  Creator  of  it  all,  but  alas  !  "Hav- 
ing eyes,  they  saw  not,"  and  to  man^^  it  was  to 
be  their  last  day  on  earth. 

The  Jesuit  Father  was  seated  on  a  low  platform 
at  the  end  of  the  dining  saloon,  placed  in  front  of  a 
sideboard.  The  children  of  the  passengers  were 
sitting  at  his  feet,  some  at  the  edge  of  the  platform, 
and  others  on  hassocks.  Round  the  door  and  on 
either  side  of  the  platform  were  the  officers,  a  few 
sailors,  and  the  stewards  ;  while  the  revolving  chairs 


122  ELISE. 

and  stationan'  seats  round  the  cabin  were  filled  by 
the  passengers.  Father  Grey  had  already  won  the 
hearts  of  many,  all  were  eager  to  hear  what  he  had 
to  say,  and  so  perfect  order  and  silence  prevailed. 
Even  the  children  listened  attentively. 

The  Father  spoke  sitting,  in  an  easy  conversational 
tone  without  any  effort.  The  throb  of  the  engine 
and  lapping  of  the  waves  against  the  sides  of  the 
ship  keeping  up  a  kind  of  monotone  to  his  words. 
The  port  holes  were  open  on  both  sides  of  the  ship, 
and  the  soft  summer  breeze  blew  gently  through. 
It  was  a  time  and  scene  which  were  indelibly  en- 
graved on  the  hearts  of  some  present  to  the  end  of 
their  lives. 

"The  Captain  tells  me,  m}'  friends,"  said  Father 
Grey,  "that  you  are  kind  enough  to  wish  to  hear 
something  of  our  missions  down  the  coast  of  Central 
America,  and  of  the  natives  there.  I  have  been  liv- 
ing among  them  for  the  past  few  years,  and  I  shall 
be  glad  to  tell  you  about  them,  if  b}'  that  means,  I 
may  perhaps  gain  friends  for  them  among  the  kind 
and  generous  hearts  of  those  whom  God  has  given 
a  happier  lot. 

"We  will  suppose  you  have  taken  a  steamer  at 
New  Orleans  for  the  purpose  of  visiting  our  Caribs. 
You  have  had  a  lovely  journey  down  the  Carribean 
Sea  by  moonlight,  such  as  it  was  last  evening, 
moonlight  that  Northerners  never  dream  of.  A 
soft  insinuating  breeze  has  made  the  deck  just  the 


ELISE.  123 

place  for  a  laze,  but  this  is  interrupted  finally  by  the 
boat  pulling  up,  and  whistling  emphatically.  You 
see  some  lights  on  the  shore.  There  is  some  wait- 
ing which  the  captain  fills  up  with  remarks  of  an  un- 
complimentary nature  about  somebody  or  other. 
Long  after  the  sailors  have  seen  it,  you  discover  a 
black  boat,  with  two  black  men,  shooting  through 
the  black  water,  by  means  of  paddles,  canoe  fashion. 
You  go  down  the  steps,  and  are  directed  by : 
"Please  step  into  the  middle  of  the  boat,  sir." 
"It  is  a  dugout,  and  with  some  trepidation  you 
make  for  the  shore.  We  suppose  a  quiet  night 
otherwise,  as  you  near  the  shore  small  breakers, 
shipping  water,  much  baling,  alternated  with  pad- 
dling, but  even  if  you  upset — which  you  don't — you 
will,  after  an  ineffectual  attempt  to  swim,  conclude  to 
get  up  and  walk  as  many  have  already  done.  The 
water  gets  rough  only  when  the  shelving  sandy  shore 
is  reached,  which,  though  a  long  distance  from  land, 
is  not  more  than  three  or  four  feet  deep,  at  the 
deepest,  and,  thanks  be  to  God,  no  sharks  where 
there  is  sand. 

"You  will  be  impressed  with  our  Caribs  from  the 
first.  Their  manner  is,  at  once,  that  of  old  family 
servants  with  an  addition  of  sweetness  of  disposition, 
confidence,  and  fun,  combined  with  a  most  flattering 
respect.  You  find  the  home  adapted  to  letting  in 
all  the  fresh  air  possible.  Rooms  are  separated  by 
great  Venetian  shutters  like  the  blinds  of  bell  towers ; 


124  ELISE. 

dreadfully  discouraging  to  the  discussions  of  people's 
characters. 

"The  next  morning  out  on  the  veranda,  the  sea 
before  you  is  of  a  mild  sort,  sparkling  almost  in- 
tolerably and  with  no  true  ocean  swell ;  the  reason 
is  before  you.  On  the  horizon  some  thirty  or  forty 
miles  away,  are  low  lines  of  cocoanut  trees.  It  is 
the  quays :  and  beyond  the  line  another  coral  reef, 
without  any,  but  a  few  narrow  breaks. 

"No  wonder  navigation  is  difficult,  until  you  get 
inside  this  barrier,  and  that  these  parts  were  the 
favorite  homes  of  the  buccaneers.  We  will  suppose 
this  day  is  our  biggest  festa — the  christening  of  a 
dory  I — You  will  have  observed  that  for  two  or 
three  miles,  the  shore  is  set  thick  and  irregularly 
with  cabins.  These  are  thatched  with  long  plumes 
of  the  Colume  Palm,  wattled  sides,  raised  floors  of 
pounded  clay,  and  all  as  neat  as  can  be. 

"Cocoanut  trees  cluster  everywhere.  Well,  in 
full  sight,  for  your  benefit,  is  a  new  dory, — a  boat 
carved  from  a  single  trunk.  The  proud  captain  has 
spent  some  half  a  year,  a  hundred  miles  down  the 
sea  coast  cutting  it  out.  He  has  had  as  assistants 
camping  with  him,  Felix  Augustine — whom  he  had 
helped  before  in  cutting  his  dory — Jean  Narcisso, 
his  brother,  Agnes  Obiseo,  his  brother-in-law,  Mag- 
dalena  Morales,  and  Francisco  Catalena — for  some 
other  reason — camping  with  him.  They  have  been 
working  very    hard,    and    desire    a    festa.      So    the 


ELISE.  125 

boat  is  decked  with  all  the  flags  and  handkerchiefs 
that  can  be  mustered.  The  captain  receives  the 
flag  from  Matilda  Polycarpo,  the  matrita,  or  god- 
mother to  the  new  dory,  the  Melinda — I  take  real 
names  all  through.  The  captain  is  the  only  man  on 
this  occasion  and  he  takes  the  flag,  followed  by  a 
swarm  of  young  maidens  in  holiday  attire.  Sails 
are  set,  and  off  they  go  beyond  the  quays,  that  the 
new  dory  may  smell  the  blue.  They  spend  most  of 
the  days  at  the  quays  in  games  and  general  picnics. 
Later  on  crowds  are  at  the  beach  to  greet  their 
return.  As  they  approach,  sails  are  furled  and  every 
maiden  seizes  her  paddle,  sends  the  boat  flying  to 
the  shore  singing  the  song  "La  !  la  I  la  I"  sacred  to 
this  occasion ;  as  it  really  gets  near,  the  whole 
crowd  tumbles  "pell  meH"into  the  water,  by  the  way 
of  putting  a  festal  gilt  edge  on  the  whole  thing. 
The  flag  is  then  restored  to  the  "Matrita"  and  she 
leads  the  way  to  the  magnificent  feast  she  has 
been  cooking  the  whole  day. 

"Late  in  the  night  you  will  hear  a  deep,  dull  throb  : 
"Tub,  tub,  tub."  A  dance  is  going  on.  A  "pas  de 
seul,"  however,  as  it  is  done  entirely  by  the  men 
and  only  one  at  a  time,  the  rest  participate  by  ad- 
miration only.  The  dance  consists  of  an  almost 
miraculously  complicated  St.  Vitus  dance  in  legs 
ankles,  and  toes,  all  in  one  spot,  terminating  with  a 
rapid  pirouette.  The  latter  is  the  acme  of  art,  and 
the   boys   practising   it  —  the   only    dancing   I   have 


126  ELISE. 

seen — in\ariabl)-  go  over  at  that  part.  It  is  il- 
lustrative of  the  conservatism  of  the  Caribs,  that  al- 
though they  are  passionately  fond  of  music,  have 
remarkably  sweet  voices,  and  sing  accurately  what- 
ever you  teach  them,  far  quicker  than  Europeans, 
and  that  although  they  have  for  many  generations 
seen  the  graceful  Spanish  dancing,  yet  they  still 
cling  to  the  immemorial  traditional  native  ball  that 
I  have  described.  Whether  the  tradition  is  Indian 
or  African,  no  one  knows.  I  am  forgetting,  though, 
what  the  Caribs  never  forget,  the  blessing  of  the 
Padre  which  precedes  all  this. 

"On  the  other  side  of  the  river  is  a  man-o'-vvar 
town,  and  if  you  stand  on  the  bridge  on  Saturdays, 
you  may  see  a  pretty  sight,  the  whole  female  part 
of  the  settlement  out  washing.  Our  river  empties 
into  the  sea  through  a  sandy  coast  and  its  mouth  is 
consequently  full  of  spits  and  shallows  of  sand.  The 
wash-tub  used  here  is  a  small,  shallow  trough  on 
four  high  legs.  There  are  as  many  as  a  thousand 
women  and  girls  in  the  bright  sunlight  and  glitter 
all  chattering  and  washing  the  bright  red  and  many 
colored  clothes;  sand  and  sea  glittering  and  spark- 
ling. It  is  a  much  gayer  scene  than  at  Trouville, 
Biarritz,  and  other  French  places  which  artists  are 
always  sketchirg. 

"Perhaps,  another  day  you  would  see  the  landing 
of  cattle  from  a  vessel.  This  is  a  great  trial  to  our 
poor  Caribs.     The  process  is  simple.     The  beast  is 


ELISE.  127 

hoisted  out  of  the  hold  and  dropped  into  the  water, 
then  some  men  hi  a  dory  catch  the  halter,  and  keep- 
ing the  head  out  of  the  water,  paddle  with  difficulty 
toward  shore.  The  animal  resigns  itself  complete- 
ly and  floats  anyhow,  on  its  side  or  any  other  way, 
until  it  is  made  to  feel  the  sand  under  its  feet,  when 
it  promptly  exerts  itself,  and  gives  trouble.  There 
is  an  extra  amount  to  our  Caribs,  who  don't  mind 
snakes  and  tigers  in  the  least,  despise  sharks  in  a  way 
that  makes  me  strongly  suspicious  that  we  giv^e  alto- 
gether too  much  respect  to  these  animals,  and  really 
joy  in  a  hurricane  or  cyclone ;  but  are  decidedly 
afraid  of  cows  and  horses  to  which  the}'  are  not 
accustomed.  They  tempt  them  into  the  right  w^ay 
by  respectfull}'  and  cautiously  poking  at  them  with 
long  poles.  I  was  once  earnestly  warned  by  a  little 
Carib  child  not  to  pursue  a  path  I  was  taking, 
because  a  very  weak  and  aged  horse  was  grazing 
some  fort}-  feet  from  it. 

"Our  Caribs  are  not  ambitious ;  they  work  enough 
to  get  a  living,  and  are  generous  to  the  Church,  but 
have  no  notion  of  being  rich.  May  God  keep  them 
so  I  Their  regime  is  very  strict,  none  can  marry 
without  leave.  Grown  up  men  and  women  must 
mind  their  parents,  and  take  their  scoldings  on  their 
knees.  They  elect  their  own  alcades,  and  no  dif- 
ferences or  business  ever  comes  before  a  white  judge. 
They  allow  no  interference  in  these  matters,  even 
from  a  priest.      It  is  wonderful  how  they  draw  the 


128  ELISE. 

line,  for  in  matters  of  religion,  they  are  remarkably 
obedient  and  submissive. 

"The  life  of  a  missionary  in  the  tropics  is  that  of 
a  martyr.  First  he  must  meet  the  trial  of  extreme 
loneliness  and  complete  isolation  from  all  congenial 
society,  and  surroundings.  His  journeyings  from 
mission  to  mission  must  be  done  under  the  fierce 
rays  of  a  tropical  sun,  in  leaky  canoes  or  dugouts, 
exposed  to  great  heat  for  hours,  in  calms,  or'adverse 
winds.  On  the  coast,  where  most  of  our  missions 
are  situated,  he  is  subject  to  constant  attacks  of  mal- 
arial fever,  and  strange  to  say,  pneumonia,  of  which 
many  of  the  Caribs  die.  "Why,  then,"  do  you  say, 
"not  go  on  horse  back,  or  on  foot?"  Simply  because 
there  are  no  roads,  and  a  path  must  be  cut  through 
the  thick  undergrowth  before  one  can  make  a 
step  in  advance  through  the  countr}'.  One  thing 
my  friends,  you  can  easily  do,  which  brightens 
greatly  the  missionary's  life.  Where  there  is  only  a 
weekly  mail,  or  even  less,  a  periodical,  or  paper 
from  the  outside  world,  seems  to  the  lonely  mis- 
sionary a  connecting  link  with  civilization,  and  gives 
a  greater  pleasure  than  one  can  imagine  who  has 
not  been  thus  isolated.  Take  an  imaginary  glance 
at  all  those  who  are  toiling,  and  daily  sacrificing 
their  lives,  from  Alaska  down  to  the  southernmost 
point  of  South  America — yes  in  Africa,  the  Indies, 
Corea,  China,  the  soldiers  fall  daily,  but  they  close 
up  ranks  and  march  on.      Martyrs  have  never  been 


ELISE.  129 

wanting  in  the  Church,  and  the  present  generation 
has  seen  as  many  as  any.  My  children  what  will 
you  do?" 

The  missionary  paused,  and  there  was  a  great 
stillness  in  the  cabin.  Elise  had  been  gradually 
drawing  nearer,  and  now  laid  her  hand  on  his.  He 
looked  down  at  her,  and  was  startled  at  the  earnest 
intelligence  of  her  gaze.  At  a  signal  from  him  a 
lad)-  at  the  piano  began  St.  Francis  Xavier's  hymn, 

My  God  I  love  Thee  not  because 
1  hope  for  Heaven  thereby — 

All  joined  heartily,  and  to  many  besides  Elise  was 
that  Sunday  the  beginning  of  a  devoted  life. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 


A    FALLEN    STAR. 

Slster  Felicitas  was  awakened  in  the  middle 
of  the  night,  by  a  cold  little  hand  laid  on  hers.  It 
was  Elise,  whose  state-room  communicated  with  that 
of  the  nun's  by  an  inside  door. 

"Sister,"  she  said  with  perfect  calmness,  "you 
must  get  up,  and  dress  immediately,  there  is 
danger." 

"Dear  child,"  said  the  nun  taking  her  hand,  "how 
cold  you  are  ;  you  have  been  dreaming ;  all  is  well. 
Go  back  to  your  berth-  again,  and  I  will  be  in  pres- 
ently to  see  you,  if  you  are  frightened." 

"I  am  not  afraid.  Sister,"  said  the  child,  "but  in- 
deed !  you  must  hasten.  Please,  Sister,  get  up 
quickly."  She  spoke  in  the  same  intense  earnest- 
ness, that  she  had  used  at  the  sailor's  cabin  door. 

"Really,  Sister,"  said  a  voice  from  the  upper  berth, 
you  are  spoiling  that  child.  Do  send  her  back  to 
her  berth,  and  go  to  sleep  again.  We  would  be 
warned  if  there  was  anything  the  matter.  The 
child  is  nervous,  and  so  needs  rest  the  more." 


ELISE.  131 

Sister  Felicitas  listened  a  moment ;  all  was  quiet, 
but  the  noise  of  the  engines,  while  from  the  look- 
out came  clearly,  the  "all's  well,"  of  the  watch. 

"There,  dear ;  hear  that,"  said  Sister  Felicitas. 
"Go  back,  and  lie  down  again,  and  I  will  be  in 
directly,  to  cover  you  up,  and  give  you  a  warm 
drink." 

The  child  went  back  to  the  state-room  as  directed, 
and  then  instead  of  lying  down,  began  dressing  as 
quickly  as  possible. 

"They  will  not  come,  dear  angel,"  she  said.  "Do 
you  go  to  them  and  preserve  them  from  all  danger." 

After  she  had  finished  dressing,  she  looked  about 
her.  "It  will  be  cold,"  she  said,  "[may  take  this,"  and 
pulling  the  white  blanket  off  the  berth,  she  wrapped 
it  around  her  shoulders,  and  passed  out  into  the  cabin. 
All  was  perfectly  quiet. 

The  lights  were  dim,  but  enough  light  was  left  to 
show  her  the  way,  and  she  moved  noiselessly  along 
the  cabin  up  the  stairs,  going  aft  to  the  deck  over 
the  steerage.  Suddenly  a  man  shot  from  the  steer- 
age, shouting  : 

"Fire  !  fire  !" 

Instantly  the  alarm  ran  through  the  ship,  and  all 
was  noise  and  confusion,  as  a  cloud  of  flame  and 
smoke  burst  from  the  hold.  The  fire  was  under 
too  great  headway  now  to  attempt  to  control  it,  and 
preparations  were  made  at  once  to  lower  the  boats. 

Our  little  girl  stood  alone,  watching  the  scene  of 


132  ELISE. 

confusion.  The  shrieking  and  weeping  of  the 
women  and  children,  the  shouting  of  orders,  and 
the  consequent  quarrelling  and  fighting,  which 
always  ensues  where  each  one  strives  to  be  first. 
All  seemed  to  be  going  on  forward,  and  she  was 
gradually  left  standing  there  alone.  She  could  not 
have  gone  forward  now,  she  was  separated  from 
the  rest  by  a  cloud  of  dense  smoke.  She  was  very 
calm  and  quiet,  and  was  apparently  talking  to 
some  one  near,  who  was  invisible. 

Presently  two  men  came  climbing  up  the  back 
stair-case  from  the  cabin,  the  same  way  that  she  had 
come.  They  did  not  see  the  child,  but  went  to  the 
stern  of  the  ship,  and  looked  over. 

"Here  she  is,  all  right,  Jerry,"  said  one  of  them, 
with  an  oath,  pointing  to  a  small  boat  which  was 
floating  astern,  attached  to  the  steamer  by  a  rope. 

He  was  a  short  stout  man  with  a  scrubby  red 
beard,  which,  as  well  as  his  hair  was  cut  short;  the 
true  type  of  a  New  York  rough.  His  companion, 
Jerry,  was  a  most  remarkable  looking  man,  one  who 
would  attract  attention  anywhere,  and  then  give 
you  a  shiver  of  aversion.  Very  tall,  and  thin,  with 
long,  bushy,  curly,  uncombed  hair  and  beard,  of  a 
dark  brown  color.  A  terrible  gloom  seemed  to 
surround  and  overshadow  him.  His  forehead  was 
deeply  furrowed  by  passion,  while  his  dark  glittering 
eyes  seemed  to  pierce  you  through  with  a  glance. 
The  hopeless  despair  of  the  "worm  which  dieth  not," 


ELISE.  135 

seemed  to  have  taken  possession  of  him,  as  with 
drooping  head  and  shoulders,  he  stood  at  the  deck 
raihngs,  grasping  in  his  hand,  hke  the  traitor  Judas, 
a  bag  of  gold. 

Suddenly  Elise  stepped  forward:  "I  am  to  go. 
with  you,"  she  said. 

The  effect  was  electrical.  With  a  deep  groan 
Jerry  dropped  his  money  bag  and  cowered  back  into 
the  corner  as  far  as  he  could  go.  The  short  man 
dropped  on  his  knees  and  blessed  himself  most 
devoutly,  his  teeth  chattering  in  his  head  with 
terror. 

"Do  not  be  frightened,"  said  the  child  gently,  "I 
am  only  Elise,  and  I  must  go  with  3-ou  to  get  away 
from  the  fire." 

The  short  man  was  the  first  to  recover  himself. 

"Jerry,  man  !"  he  said  with  a  short,  sensual  laugh, 
like  himself,  "It's  only  one  of  the  passenger's 
youngsters.  Blessed  ef  I  didn't  think  it  was  a  spook. 
Where's  your  folks,  little  gal?  Run  and  find  em. 
You  can't  go  with  us." 

"I  cannot  go  !"  said  the  child  briefly. 

She  spoke  trul}-,  for  the  heat  \vas  fast  becoming 
unbearable,  and  the  fire  was  rapidly  spreading,  and 
had  completely  shut  off  the  other  end  of  the  boat. 

Jerry  drew  up  the  boat,  dropped  the  bag  into  it, 
and  followed  sullenly  cowering  down  again  in 
the  farther  end,  and  hiding  his  head  on  his  folded 
arms. 


134  ELISE. 

"Ef  you  ain't  the  meanest,  most  miserable  scamp," 
said  the  short  man  impatiently.  "Here  rouse  up 
man,  and  tell  me  mighty  quick  what  to  do  with 
this  youngster." 

No  response,  or  movement. 

"Well,"  said  the  short  man,  "it  can't  be  helped 
lie's  in  one  of  his  moods.  Here  goes  for  good 
luck,"  and  taking  the  child's  two  hands  in  one  of  his, 
he  lifted  her  slight  form,  and  slung  her  into  the 
boat.  Then  detaching  the  rope,  rowed  away  as 
quickly  as  possible.  He  was  none  too  soon,  for 
hardly  had  he  rowed  a  few  yards  when  the  burning 
■ship  gave  a  sudden  lurch,  and  went  down.  The 
moon  shone  calml}'  down  on  the  troubled  water  as 
though  nothing  had  occurred,  leaving  a  long  glit- 
tering path  of  white  shining  over  the  face  of  the 
ocean,  as  if  it  might  be  the  way  by  which  the  de- 
parting souls  were  going  home. 

"Let  us  go  back,"  said  the  child,  now  weeping 
iind  trembling,  "we  may  save  some,  the  Sisters, 
Father  Grey,  and  the  others." 

"No,  little  gal,"  said  the  short  man,  with  another 
of  his  short  laughs,  "wc  might  get  more  passengers 
than  we  want.  Every  man  for  himself,  so  say  I. 
Here,  Jerr3s  man,  rouse  up,  I  say,  and  take  a  hand  at 
the  oars." 

Jerry  thus  adjured,  grasped  the  oars,  and  began 
■with  desperate  strength  to  row  the  boat. 

"You  are  going  the  wrong  way,"  said  the  child 


ELISE.  135 

quietly,  "that  is  the  way,"  and  she  pointed  in  an  al- 
most opposite  direction. 

"Well,  I'll  be  blessed,"  said  the  short  man,  "ef 
she  hasn't  the  cheek  of  a  cast  iron  monkey." 

"Go  as  she  directs,"  said  Jerry  shortly.  So  saying 
he.  turned  the  boat,  and  began  rowing  away  in  the 
direction  she  pointed  out. 

"That  is  not  yours,"  said  the  child,  gravely,  point- 
ing to  the  bag.  "You  are  Catholics,  and  should 
confess  your  sins,  and  make  restitution.  You  are 
more  than  a  Catholic,"  said  she,  with  her  inexorable 
finger  pointed  at  Jerry.   "You  are  a  priest." 

Jerry  dropped  his  oars,  and  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands,  and  groaned  aloud. 

"See  here,  little  gal,"  said  the  short  man,  "you  are 
altogether  too  sassy  for  a  kid  ;  little  gals  should  be  seen, 
and  not  heard ;  you  just  wrop  that  'ere  blanket 
around  them  little  shoulders  of  yourn,  and  lie  down 
and  go  to  sleep,  and  when  you  wake  up,  we'll  be 
ashore." 

Perfectly  submissive,  and  obedient,  the  child  sat 
down  on  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  and  placing  her 
head  on  one  of  the  seats,  was  soon  lost  in  the  tran- 
quil sleep  of  the  innocent. 

Silently  the  two  men  rowed  on,  Jerry  with  such 
desperate  energy,  that  the  short  man  had  hard  work 
to  keep  up  with  him.  Presently  he  stopped  row- 
ing, and  said  : 

"Jerry,   man,  what's  got  into  you?  you  row  as  if 


136  ELISE. 

the  very  old  boy  was  after  you  ;  there's  no  such  tearing- 
hurry,  we  can't  be  far  from  shore,  and  we  don't 
want  to  land  till  we  see  where  we  are." 

No  response  came  from  Jerry.  With  eyes  staring 
wildly  before  him,  as  though  piercing  through  the 
gloom  to  the  invisible,  he  rowed  on  as  desperately 
as  before,  with  all  his  strength,  and  with  apparent 
unconsciousness  of  all  around. 

"All  right,  then,  have  it  your  own  way,"  muttered 
the  short  man,  "but  I'm  not  going  to  kill  myself  for 
you,  not  ef  I  knows  myself,  and  I  thinks  I  does. 
Lets  count  the  swag,  and  see  if  it  pays,"  So  saying 
he  shipped  his  oars,  and  proceeded  to  open  the  bag 
of  gold  and  count  its  contents. 

Elise  stirred  uneasily  in  her  sleep. 

"Papa,  papa,"  she  said,  and  her  lip  curled  over 
with  the  same  grieved  look  which  we  see  sometimes 
in  babies  when  troubled.  The  short  man  looked  at 
her  in  alarm,  but  she  slept  on  unconsciously. 

"I've  a  great  mind  to  pitch  her  into  the  water,  and 
be  done  with  it,"  he  said  vindictively. 

He  made  a  movement  toward  her,  perhaps  with 
that  intent,  but  was  arrested  by  Jerry  who  said  in  a 
voice  which  made  the  short  man  jump  nervously. 

"Let  the  child  alone  !" 

"I  hain't  touched  her,"  said  the  short  man  peev- 
ishly, and  he  began  to  put  back  the  gold  in  feverish 
haste.  The  grey  light  of  the  morning  was  breaking 
when  he  had  finished,  and  caused  him  to  shiver  with 


ELISE  137 

the  chill  which  accompanies  that  early  hour. 
Taking  a  flask  from  his  pocket  he  took  a  long  pull 
and  then  offered  it  to  Jerry,  but  he  might  as  well 
have  offered  it  to  a  statue.  Jerry  saw  nothing 
around  him,  and  with  a  dissatisfied  grunt  the  short 
man  replaced  it  in  his  pocket,  and  again  took  the 
oars  to  assist  his  companion.  Very  soon  they  came 
in  sight  of  a  low,  sandy  shore. 

So  the  kid  was  right  after  all ;  she  knows  too  much 
altogether,  to  suit  me,"  said  the  short  man,  "and 
now  where  might  we  be  I  wonder?  As  T  have  to 
answer  my  own  questions  with  this  crew,  I  should 
say  we  should  be  up  pretty  nigh  to  Old  Virginny. 
I  wonder  if  the  Rebs  would  grab  us  if  we  land  : 
rather  them  than  old  Ben  Butler,  who  is  around  about 
here  somewheres.  Well  there's  nothing  for  it,  but 
to  make  a  try,"  and  very  soon  the  boat  grounded 
the  sandy  beach. 

No  sooner  did  the  boat  come  near  the  land,  than 
Jerry  dropped  his  oars,  gave  a  frantic  leap  ashore, 
and  began  to  run  up  the  beach. 

"Hello  here!"  shouted  the  short  man;  "come 
back  here  man  ;  where  are  you  going?" 

"To  do  penance  for  my  sins  I"  shouted  Jerry 
clasping  his  hands  over  his  head,  and  running  with 
all  his  might. 

"Fool!  he's  gone  mad  through  that  simple  idiot 
of  a  baby !  'It's  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody 
good.'     So  much  the  more  for  me.     Jerry  always 


138  ELISE. 

was  a  queer  one,"  he  soliloquized.      "I'm  glad  enough 
to  get  rid  of  him,  now  let's  see  where  we  are." 

He  looked  around  ;  behind  him  was  a  steep  em- 
bankment of  sand  which  ran  along  the  beach  as  far 
as  he  could  see.  To  the  North  was  a  cape,  on 
which  stood  a  light  house.  Here  all  was  profound- 
ly quiet,  and  solitary. 

"Couldn't  have  arranged  it  better,  ef  Providence 
was  on  my  side!"  chuckled  he:  "Might  be  some- 
where near  Norfolk,  reckon  I'd  better  make  a  little 
survey."  He  stealthily  crept  up  the  high  sand  bank, 
toward    a    clump    of   bushes    growing    at    the    top. 

When  he  reached  the  top,  he  stood  up  and  looked 
through  them.  There  was  no  occasion  for  his 
stealth.  There  was  a  pine  grove  on  the  embank- 
ment, and  below  this,  on  the  plain,  a  regiment  of 
Confederates  had  camped.  It  was  early  yet,  but 
all  were  astir,  getting  breakfasts  over  camp  fires,  and 
the  sentinels  were  posted  rather  nearerthan  he  liked, 
so  he  stole  quickly  back  down  to  his  boat. 

"This  is  not  the  place  for  you,  my  man,"  he  said 
to  himself.  "I  reckon  I  better,  keep  on  a  little,  but 
first  I  must  get  rid  of  the  kid.  I've  had  enough  of 
her  and  Jerry,  a  little  too  much.  Here,  young'un^ 
wake  up  I  say,   rv^e  got  ashore." 

Elise  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  round  her  for  a 
minute,  and  then  stood  up. 

"All  is  well  with  them,"  she  said,  looking  gravely 
at  the  man. 


ELISE.  13^ 

"Do  tell,"  said  he,  "delighted  to  hear  it  I'm  sure. 
Now  you  just  step  out  of  this,  and  lively  too.  Give 
me  that  'ere  blanket,  you've  no  further  use  for  it,  and 
I  may  find  it  handy,  then  walk  yourself  right  up 
that  ere  path,  and  you'll  find  someone  there  who 
will  give  you  some  breakfast,  and  send  you  to  your 
friends." 

The  child  handed  him  the  blanket,  and  stepped 
out  of  the  boat. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  "you  cannot  return  it  to  the 
steamer?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  can,"  said  he.  "Of  course  I'm  going  tO' 
row  right  back  there  and  drop  it  in  the  water,  just; 
where  she  sunk." 

"You  are  not  a  good  man,"  said  Elise,  "I  don't: 
like  you." 

"Don't  say?"  said  the  man  in  a  tone  of  concern. 
"That's  not  fair,  when  I  rowed  you  ashore.  If  I  wasn't 
in  such  a  confounded  hurry  as  well  as  desiring  to  be: 
as  ,quiet  as  possible,  I'd  give  you  good  reason  for 
not  liking  me  before  I  leave  you." 

He  gave  the  child  a  look  which  made  her  shudder 
and  turn  away,  and  as  she  walked  quietly  up  the- 
bank,  he  sprang  into  the  boat,  and  rowed  quickly^ 
up  the  shore. 

Before  going  on  with  the  histor}^  of  our  little 
heroine,  let  us  see  what  has  become  of  Jerry.  His 
character  was  a  striking  instance  of  the  truth  of  the 
adage  :    "Those  who  standeth  highest  falleth  lowest." 


I40  ELISE. 

A  boy  in  the  Jesuits'  schools,  he  stood  hif]^hest  in 
his  class  for  intellectual  gifts,  and  attainments,  and 
when  he  begged  admittance  to  the  Society,  he  was 
sincere  in  his  intention  to  devote  his  life  to  the 
"Greater  Glory  of  God,"  but  full  of  pride,  and  self- 
reliance  in  his  natural  gifts,  he  must  be  humbled 
first  to  the  dust,  before  he  could  become  a  tool, 
"meet  for  the  Master's  use."  His  superiors,  recog- 
nizing his  natural  abilities,  sent  him  to  Rome  to 
finish  his  studies.  Here  he  devoted  himself  with  so 
much  energy  to  his  work,  that  he  fell  ill  of  brain  fever, 
and  closed  that  avenue  to  himself  forever.  When 
convalescent  he  was  sent  to  a  country  house  to  gain 
health  and  strength.  While  there  he  was  one  day 
walking  with  a  party  of  lads  who  were  recreating  at 
the  same  house.  In  their  walk,  they  came  to  a  very 
rapid  stream,  flowing  through  the  meadows.  One 
of  the  lads  full  of  life  and  vigor,  gave  a  running 
leap,  cleared  the  brook,  and  lighted  on  the  other 
side,  amidst  the  applause  of  his  companions. 

"Oh  !  that  is  not  so  difficult,"  said  the  Father, 
"This  bank  is  much  higher  than  the  other ;  the 
difficulty  would  be  in  jumping  back  again." 

"The  boy  laughed,  ran  back  a  little  way  and 
tried  another  running  leap,  to  regain  his  party  ;  but 
he  had  miscalculated  his  strength,  he  missed  his 
footing,  and  fell  back  again  into  the  water,  striking 
Tiis  head  against  a  stone.  His  comrades  quickly 
formed  a  chain,  and  the  foremost  rushed  into  the 


ELISE.  141 

^Stream,  and  soon  rescued  him.  He  had"  not  been 
iive  minutes  under  the  water,  but  all  their  efforts  to 
resuscitate  him  proved  in  vain,  his  life  was  com- 
pletely extinct,  and  he  who  had  been  the  life  and 
light  of  the  happy  party  on  setting  out,  was  now 
borne  home  on  an  improvised  shutter,  his  companions 
chanting  the  "De  Profundis"  as  they  walked.  This 
terrible  event  proved  too  much  of  a  strain  on  the 
poor  Father.  His  reason  again  gave  way,  and  it 
became- necessary  to  send  him  to  an  insane  asylum. 
Here  he  slowly  recovered,  and  again  he  joined  his 
•community,  but  alas !  his  pride  and  self-reliance 
were  still  unsubdued,  and  in  rebellion  toward  the 
hand  that  chastened,  his  faith  became  weakened. 
He  fell  a  victim  to  the  first  strong  temptation  and 
left  the  "Society."  What  need  to  tell  any  farther  ; 
he  fell  lower  and  lower,  until  he  reached  the  lowest 
strata  of  humanity.  Of  what  use  were  his  natural 
gifts  to  him  now?  Only  a  torment,  Avhich  made  him 
abhor  himself  and  prevented  his  becoming  one  with 
his  comrades.  He  had  not  indeed  joined  the  plot  of 
firing  the  steamer,  and  robbing  the  passengers,  but 
he  had  not  prevented  it,  and  he  had  seized  the  gold, 
which  he  hoped  would  give  him  the  opportunity  of 
again  rising  in  the  world." 

Oh,  the  pity  of  it !  who  can  fall  lower  than  a  re- 
probate religious?  How  often  do  we  not  hear  of 
those  who  once  shone  as  stars  in  the  firmament,  who 
aiow  lie  grovelling  on  the  ground  ?    Their  punishment 


142  ELISE. 

has  already  begun  in  "the  fire  that  is  not  quenched 
and  the  worm  that  dieth  not."  Hating  with  all 
their  strength  the  Holy  Mother  Church  that  they 
once  so  much  loved,  full  of  doubts  and  contradictions, 
melancholy  and  self-repining  they  have  lost  self- 
respect  and  the  respect  of  others,  without  which  life 
is  not  worth  living.  There  is  no  such  unhappy  or 
degraded  being  in  the  world  as  a  fallen   religious. 

Salt  is  good;  but  if  the  salt  shall  lose  its  savor 
wherewith  shall  it  be  seasoned?  It  is  neither  pro- 
fitable to  the  land  nor  for  the  dunghill,  but  shall  be 
cast  out  and  trodden  under  the  foot  of  man. 

Father  Grey  had  partly  penetrated  Jerr3^'s  dis- 
guise on  the  steamer,  and  by  some  few  pointed 
words  had  let  in  the  first  ray  of  hope  since  he  began 
his  downward  career.  Then  the  appearance  of 
Elise,  whose  words  had  been  so  evidently  supernatu- 
ral, had  finished  the  blessed  lesson.  He  knew  it  to 
be  hopeless  to  attempt  to  gain  readmittance  to  the. 
Society.  Nevertheless  he  turned  to  it  for  direction 
and  guidance  in  his  great  need.  To-day  there  is  no 
more  fervent  penitent  among  the.Trappists  than  Jerry.. 

"Howdid  the  child  gain  her  knowledge?"  you  ask. 
I  cannot  tell.  Is  it  the  angels  or  heaven-born  in- 
stinct which  enables  children,  nay,  sometimes  even 
the  dumb  beasts,  to  discern  truths  which  we  who 
believe  ourselves  wiser,  cannot  see?  I  must  leave 
the  question  to  wiser  heads,  or  more  spiritual  souls 
to  answer. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 


THE    CONFEDERATES. 


A  PINE  grove  on  a  mid-summer  day  I  ^vhat  re- 
collections does  it  not  bring  forth?  Recall  to  one's 
mind  the  air  full  of  the  odor  of  the  pines,  the  soft 
melancholy  soughing  of  the  wind  in  the  branches 
overhead.  This  one  was  a  small  upland  grove, 
which  overlooked  a  plain  on  which,  as  we  before 
said,  was  encamped  a  regiment  of  Confederate 
soldiers.  The  sky  was  cloudless,  the  sun  had  risen 
two  hours  ago,  and  was  beginning  to  pour  down  its 
fierce  rays  on  the  tents  below.  Every  one  was  astir 
down  there  ;  but  up  here  in  the  grove  all  was  silent 
except  the  wind  in  the  pines,  which  seemed  playing 
the  solemn  dirges  for  those,  who,  in  a  few  days, 
would  be  stretched  cold  in  death  on  the  field  of 
battle.  Under  the  tall  trees,  and  near  the  edge  of 
the  bank,  two  young  men  were  stretched  on  the 
carpet  of  pine  needles  ;  conversing  in  low,  earnest 
tones.  One  has  the  grey  uniform  of  a  Confederate 
officer,  and  the  other  was  in  civilian's  dress.  The 
latter,  whom  we  shall  call    Alex,  was  speaking: 


144  ELISE. 

"So  you  are  going  to  join  Beauregard's  army, 
Harry?" 

"Yes;"  replied  Captain  Harry  Webber,  the  only 
son  ot  one  of  the  F.  F.  Vs.  "We  are  momentarily 
expecting  marching  orders." 

"What  does  your  mother  say  to  it  all?"  said  Alex. 

"Oh  I  mother's  metal  rings  out  the  genuine 
article,"  said  the  young  officer  sadly.  "She  buckled 
on  my  sword  herself,  and  told  me  to  go  with  her 
blessing,  with  a  smile  under  which  I  knew  well  her 
heart  was  breaking.  May  God  preserve  me  to  re- 
ward her  generosity.  I  surely  will,  if  man  can  do 
it,"  he  added,  fervently. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  an  oriole 
from  a  bush  near,  poured  out  its  very  soul  in  an 
ecstasy  of  song. 

"A  good  omen  !"  said  the  captain.  "I  accept  it  as 
a  token  of  success." 

"But  what  under  heaven  is  it  all  for?"  said  Alex 
impatiently. 

"For  the  defence  of  our  rights,  of  course,"  said 
the  captain. 

"Rights!"  said  the  other  with  scorn,  and  incre- 
dulity in  his  tone. 

"Do  3'ou  suppose,"  said  Captain  Webber  hotly, 
"that  we  are  going  to  let  those  beastly,  skinflint 
Yankees  trample  on  our  rights,  take  away  our  prop- 
erty, and  submit  tamely,  without  lifting  a  hand  to 
protect  our  homes?" 


ELISE.  145 

"Here  is  one,  at  any  rate,  who  has  no  wish  to  do 
so,"  said  Alex,  with  a  sad  smile. 

"Forgive  me,  old  fellow,  I  quite  forgot  you  were  a 
Northerner,  but  all  events  you  are  no  Yankee." 

"Straight  from  Varmount,"  said  Alex,  with  a  nasal 
twang. 

"Oh  !  when  shall  we  learn  to  know  each  other, 
and  when  will  it  all  end?"  he  added  with  a  dismal 
sigh. 

"Where  will  it  end?"  said  the  young  captain 
cheerfully.  "Oh  I  it  will  not  be  any  such  tremend- 
ous matter,  I  think,"  he  added  after  a  moment's  re- 
flection. "When  Northerners  see  we  are  deter- 
mined to  stand  up  resolutely  for  our  own  rights, 
and  will  resist  all  tyranny  even  unto  death,  they 
will  give  way  ;  and  we  shall  peacefully  secede,  and 
have  our  own  nation  and  government.  This  country 
is  getting  too  large  to  manage  itself  well,  and  the 
South  and  North  can  no  more  mix  than  oil  and 
water.  No  ;  depend  upon  it,  the  Yankees  are  too 
fond  of  their  money  bags  and  business  to  stop  to 
fight,  and  there  will  be  very  little  of  it  done." 

"Ahem  I"  said  Alex  significantly. 

"There  I  am  again  I"  said  the  captain.  "But  you 
know  very  well  that  present  company  is  always  ex- 
cepted, and  we  are  friends;  we  will  not  let  this 
wretched  affair  separate  us,  will  we,  old  fellow?"  and 
he  looked  beseechingly  into  Alex's  eyes. 

Alex  grasped  his   hand  right  cordially,   and    the 


146  ELISE. 

young  captain  was  beginning  again,  but  broke  off 
suddenly  with  : 

"Hello  I  who  have  we  here?" 

Elise  stood  before  them,  looking  down  on  them 
with  an  earnest  gaze.  Her  hair  was  somewhat 
tumbled,  and  disarranged  by  her  adventures:  but 
the  little  lady  shone  out  under  all  her  untidiness, 
and  the  escaped  hair  curling  in  rings  around  her 
forehead  and  neck  only  made  her  look  more  pretty, 
and  picturesque.  How  frail  and  almost  ethereal 
she  looked  as  she  stood  there,  after  her  sudden  and 
unexpected  appearance.  The  color  in  her  lips  and 
cheeks  was  unnaturally  bright,  and  her  dark  eyes 
full  of  tears  at  the  loneliness  of  her  position.  She 
was  a  picture  of  exquisite  loveliness;  and  so  thought 
the  startled  young  men,  as  she  gazed  down  on 
them. 

"If  you  please,"  she  said,  "I  am  Elise  de  la  Roche, 
I  came  last  night  from  the  burning  steamer,  and  I 
am  going  North  to  New  York,  to  my  father." 

"Burning  steamer  I"  exclaimed  Captain  Harry. 
"Are  you  sure  you  are  not  a'  fairy?  Did  you  hear 
of  any?"  said  he,  turning  to  his  companion. 

"No;"  said  Alex.  "But  don't  you  remember  the 
light  on  the  horizon,  last  evening  ;  we  noticed  it  from 
your  mother's  veranda?" 

"To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  captain  who 
did  not  look  deeply  concerned  over  the  news.  "So 
that  was    a    Northern    steamer?     Where    are    your 


ELISE.  147 

"friends,  my  child,  was  there  no  one  to  look  after 
you?" 

"They  must  have  gone  in  the  boats.  I  think  it 
was  well  with  them,"  said  Elise  hesitatingly. 

"Was  no  one  with  you?  How  did  you  get 
ashore?" 

"Two  men  brought  me,  and  then  went  away 
again,"  said  the  child  hanging  her  head.  She  was 
too  full  to  say  any  more,  and  the  tears  began  to  roll 
down  her  cheeks. 

"Oh  come  now  !"  exclaimed  the  captain.  "I  can't 
stand  that,  you  know,"  and  he  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"See  here,  little  sister,  I  will  take  care  of  you,  and 
see  you  safely  with  your  friends,  if  you  will  trust 
yourself  with  me,  and  do  just  what  I  tell  you  ;  that 
is  if  I  live,"  he  added  in  an  undertone.  "Is  that  a 
bargain?"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand  to  her  with 
a  winning  smile. 

The  child,  in  answer,  slipped  her  hand  in  his, 
with  confidence,  and  lifted  her  dark  eyes  trustfully, 
with  a  smile,  and  the  friendship  was  sealed. 

"Now,"  said  the  captain  in  a  satisfied  tone,  turn- 
ing to  his  friend,  with  a  comical  smile,  "the  question 
is  what  shall  I  do  with  her." 

"Send  her  to  your  mother,  until  an  opportunity 
comes  to  pass  her  through  the  lines.  I'll  look  after 
her,"  said  Alex. 

Elise  clung  the  tighter  to  her  new  friend's  hand 
and  looked  at  him  bes££chingly,  saying : 


148  ELISE. 

"I  want  to  stay  with  you." 

"And  you  shall,"  said  Captain  Harry.  "No  one 
knows  when  the  opportunity  to  send  her  North  will 
come,  better  than  the  present  one.  We  are  bound 
straight  through  to  Washington,  at  least,  and  she 
shall  go  along  with  me." 

"You  must  be  crazy,  Harry!"  said  Alex;  "Take 
a  child  like  that  along  with  the  army  I  What  will 
you  do  with  her  when  you  go  into  action?  What 
are  you  thinking  of?" 

The  captain  laughed  a  little  self-consciously,  and 
said  : 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  am  a  little  looney.  But 
mother  could  not  resist  sending  along  Uncle  Pete  to 
look  after  her  chickens,  and  he's  brought  his  big 
covered  market  wagon  and  favorite  mules.  He  has 
filled  it  pretty  well  with  supplies,  but  he  will  have 
room  for  the  little  one,  and  take  care  of  her  like  a 
mother,  and  you  may  trust  him  for  keeping  out  of 
the  fighting  and  coming  ofi"  with  a  whole  skin." 

Alex  shook  his  head  dubiously. 

"Will  you  go  with  me,  little  lady?"  said  the  cap- 
tain, "or  go  and  stay  with  a  kind  lady,  till  your  papa 
can  come  or  send  for  you?" 

Elise's  answer  was  a  look  and  confiding  motion^ 
which  touched  the  young  captain  inexpressibly^ 
He  turned  his  head  suddenly,  and  pretended  to- 
shade  his  eyes  from  the  sun  with  his  hand,  while  he- 
hallooed  lustily  for  Uncle  Pete. 


ELISE.  149 

Soon  an  old  darkey  came  laboring  slow!)-  up  the 
hill ;  he  was  black  as  night,  tall,  and  bent  with  age. 
On  his  head  and  face  were  patches  of  white  wooA, 
which  reminded  one  forcibly  of  a  deca}'ing  trunk 
in  a  dark  forest,  with  grey  moss  growing  on  it. 

"Here,  Uncle  Pete  I"  called  the  captain,  "I've  got 
a  passenger  for  you." 

"Got  a  what  fer  me?"  quavered  the  old  man  in  a 
high  key. 

"A  passenger,"  said  the  captain.  "Can  you  find 
room  for  this  little  lady  in  your  wagon,  and  look 
after  her  as  the  apple  of  your  eye?" 

"Dat  lile  gal !"  said  Uncle  Pete  lifting  his  hands, 
and  rolling  his  eyes  in  amazement.  "Laws,  you're 
only  foolin',  Massa  Harry.  Zedekiah  and  Ezechiel 
bof  tole  me  dis  mawnin'  dat  dey  couldn't  tote 
annodder  ounce  no  way  and  no  how,  and  dat  jes' 
because  I  wanted  to  put  on  a  lile  bacon,  let  alone  a 
child  like  dat  un." 

"Well,  Pete,"  said  the  captain  with  a  resigned 
air,  pressing  the  little  hand  reassuringly,  "we  shall 
have  to  leave  her  here  in  the  woods,  then,  I  suppose 
there's  no  one  else  I  can  trust  to  look  after  her,  or 
at  any  rate,  no  one  else  who  could  do  it  as  well  as 
you." 

This  was  a  parting  shot  which  told  with  great 
effect,  and  Elise  completed  it  by  fainting  away,  to 
the  dismay  of  the  three  men. 

"Brass  de  Lord  !   Massa  Harry,  de  pore  chile's 


ISO  ELISE. 

dying  wid  de  hunger,  wat  you  tinking  'bout;  boys 
don't  know  nottin'  'bout  carin'  fer  chilluns,  anyhow." 
rfe  caught  her  up  in  his  arms,  and  hurried  down 
the  hill,  followed  b}'  the  young  men  who  were  look- 
ing at  them  anxiously. 

When  Elise  became  conscious  again,  she  found 
herself  lying  on  a  luxurious  couch  of  evergreen 
boughs,  covered  with  the  captain's  best  blue  rug. 
Uncle  Pete  was  alternately  sprinkling  her  face  with 
water,  and  slapping  her  hands  with  a  most  worried 
look  on  his  kind  old  face,  while  the  young  men 
bent  apprehensively  over  her. 

Dat's  right,"  said  the  old  man  as  she  opened  her 
eyes.  "She'll  be  all  right  now,  niassa,  I'll  be  boun'. 
Pore  lile  chile,  she  only  wanted  her  breffus,  so  she 
did.  and  Uncle  Pete  will  gib  some  to  yer,  so  he  will, 
honey.  Don'y  move  now  an  you'll  see  how  chipper 
3^ou'll  be  in  a  minit." 

Klise  smiled  at  him  gratefully,  and  won  the  old 
man's  heart.  A  delicious  sense  of  repose  stole  over 
her,  and  she  felt  she  could  lie  there  forever.  She 
closed  her  eyes  while  the  old  man  proceeded  to  boil 
some  coffee  in  a  tin  cup  on  the  coals  of  his  camp- 
fire  and  to  impale  some  transparent  slices  of  bacon 
on  sharp  sticks  which  he  placed  over  the  coals,  and 
let  it  drip  slowly  down  on  some  corn  bread  as  it 
cooked. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Pete  !  the  child  can't  eat  tlTat,"  said 
Alex,  scornfullv. 


ELISE.  I  5  I 

"Jes'  you  wait  a  minit,"  Massa  Alex;  "an'  you'll 
see,"  said  Uncle  Pete  condescendingly. 

"Well,"  said  the  captain,  "what  would  you  advise 
Uncle  Pete?  If  Zedekiah  and  Ezechiel,  won't  draw 
her,  what  shall  we  do  ?" 

"Let  us  bress  de  Lord  I  Massa,"  said  Uncle  Pete. 
"You  don't  understan'  dem  critters,  and  nebber  did. 
Dey's  mighty  perticler  who  dey  makes  frens  wid, 
but  wen  you  see  em  look  ober  hyar  like  dat,  and 
stamps  deire  feet,  and  flaps  dere  ears,  dat  means  dey 
know  more'n  most  folks,  and  proves  ob  dis  un  for  a 
fren.  I  don  belieb  you  could  make  dem  mules  stir 
one  step  now,  widout  dat  lile  chile.  Mighty  curus 
now  I  ain't  it?" 

"Well,  I'm  glad  they've  got  so  much  sense,  uncle, 
and  I  shall  look  to  you  to  keep  her  right  under  your 
eye,  until  I  take  her  away." 

"Wile  hosses  shan't  draw  her  fum  dis  old  darkey, 
massa,"  said  the  old  man,  and  he  proceeded  to  dish 
his  breakfast,  which  he  carried  to  the  child  as  re- 
spectfully as  if  she  were  a  princess. 

Elise  opened  her  eyes  ,  and  smiled  gratefully  at  the 
old  fellow  ;  then  she  sat  up,  and  tried  to  eat  to  please 
him  and  found  it  much  better  than  she  thought. 

"The  appetite  comes  with  the  eating,"  as  the 
French  say,  and  she  began  to  feel  much  revived. 

"You  see,  Massa  Alex,  you  see,"  said  Uncle  Pete 
to  the  young  men  who  were  watching  her,  much 
pleased  with  the  result. 


152  ELISE. 

"I  shall  have  to  give  up,  uncle,  that  you  know 
best,"  said  Alex,  and  much  relieved  the  two  young 
men  strolled  off,  leaving  Uncle  Pete  greatly  elated 
with  his  success. 

"Dat's  right,  honey,  dat's  right;  I  knows  all  yees 
want  was  sumpin'  to  eat.  Dem  yere  mules  ober 
dere  is  ours ;  and  dey's  been  askin'  introduction  to 
yer  for  de  las'  hour.  Dere  names  is  Ezechiel  and 
Zedekiah,  and  dey's  powerful  anxious  to  make  frens 
wid  yer." 

"My  name  is  Elise,"  said  the  child  politel}'. 

"Dat's  fust  class  name,  and  dem  critters  knows 
the  quality  jes'  as  quick.  Dey's  very  particular 
who  dere  friens  is,  and  dey  likes  you,  and  says  dey 
will  draw  you  right  up  to  your  pa  right  smart,  now 
I  tell  yer." 

"Oh  I  will  they?"  said  Elise,  "dear  Uncle  Pete 
you  are  so^good." 

"Sartain,"  said  Uncle  Pete ;  "Massa  Harry,  he's 
de  cappen,  and  has  to  ride  wid  his  men  3'ou  know, 
but  his  ma  sen'  me  to  look  atter  him  and  I'll  look 
atter  yer  both.  It'll  be  nottin'  but  a  big  camp 
meetin',  and  \\i\\  hab  a  jolly  good  time." 

Elise  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  on  her  evergreen 
couch,  dreamily  watching  the  camp  fire,  and  talking 
to  Uncle  Pete.  She  was  sheltered  from  the  rest  of 
the  camp,  on  one  side  by  the  big  market  wagon,  and 
on  the  other  by  a  group  of  Osage  orange  trees.  Mrs. 
Webber,  the  captain's    motlier,  and  others    of   his 


EUSE.  153 

friends  came  to  see  her  from  time  to  time  through 
the  day,  and  tried  in  vain  to  persuade  her  to  stay 
with  them  in  Norfolk ;  but  she  begged  so  earnestly 
to  go  on  with  the  captain,  that  they  were  obliged  to 
give  way,  especially  as  it  was  the  general  feeling 
that  there  would  be  little  blood  shed,  and  that  the 
Southerners  would  meet  with  no  opposition,  but 
carry  all  victoriously  before  them.  Elise  was  greatly 
amused  in  watching  the  camp  life,  and  listened 
gravely  to  all  the  discussions  which  were  carried  on, 
as  to  where  and  when  they  were  likely  to  meet  the 
enemy.  When  night  came  on,  Uncle  Pete  made  her  a 
snug  little  nest  in  his  wagon  where  she  slept  well  in 
spite  of  the  discomfort  of  unchanged  clothes.  Earl)- 
the  next  morning  she  was  awakened  by  the  sound  of  the 
bugle  calling  all  for  the  march.  She  scrambled  out 
of  the  wagon,  and  joined  Captain  Harry  in  a  hasty 
breakfast  of  coffee  and  hard  tack.  Soon  she  was 
on  the  front  seat  with  Uncle  Pete,  enjoying  greatl}' 
seeing  the  different  companies  march  out. 

"See  dem  mules,  now,"  said  Uncle  Pete,  "dey 
knows  just  as  well  as  de  wisest.  See  em  now  wid 
dere  heads  togedder  plannin',  and  plannin' ;  look,  an 
you'll  see  em  salute  wen  Massa  Harry's  compan}^ 
goes  out." 

Surely  enough  when  the  company  of  proud  >'oung 
Virginians  stepped,  with  heads  up  and  martial  air, 
with  their  resolute  young  leader  at  their  head. 
Uncle  Pete  bv  a  dexterous  twitch  on  his  reins  man- 


154  ELISE. 

aged  a  general  squeal,  and  stamping  of  feet  with  his 
mules. 

"See  dat  now,  don'  tell  me,"  said  the  darkey  im- 
pressively. 

Elise  was  profoundly  impressed,  and  believed,, 
most  admiringly,  in  Uncle  Pete  and  his  mules. 

"The  music  makes  me  feel  so  strangely  in  here," 
she  said  pressing  her  hand  on  her  heart. 

"Oh  !  dats  nottin'  'tall  w^en  you  gits  used  to  it,  I 
feel  jes' so  myself  wen  I  eats  too  much,"  said  Uncle 
Pete. 

All  through  the  hot  day  the  rode,  through  dusty 
roads  with  the  hot  sun  pouring  down  on  them.  Elise 
sat  by  the  old  man's  side,  and  told  him  of  her  South- 
ern home,  of  Mademoiselle,  and  Jacques,  and  the 
dear  ones  waiting  for  her  in  New  York.  He  was 
deeply  interested  and  frequently  interrupted  her  by 
his  exclamations  of  astonishment  and  admiration. 
He,  on  his  part,  told  her  how  he  had  alwavs  lived 
with  the  Webbers,  and  cared  for  Massa  Harry,  "sence 
he  was  a  pickaninny  and  alius  would." 

"Dem  no  'count  niggahs  run  away,  and  joins  dem 
Yankees,  but  de  quality  stick  to  de  ole  stock,  no 
Linkums  fer  me,  I  says." 

At  noon  they  halted  an  hour,  where  a  brawling 
brook  ran  into  the  river.  Elise  begged  hard  to 
find  a  quiet  place  to  make  her  toilet,  but  the  old 
man  would  not  listen  to  her  leaving  the  cart,  and  he 
would  not  leave  the  mules,  so  she  must  fain  content 
herself  with  the  little  water  he  could  bring  her. 


ELISE.  155 

At  night  the  tents  were  again  pitched  and  then 
followed  anotherlong,  hot,  dusty  day.  Elisegreatly 
pitied  the  men  who  looked  weary  and  fagged  out. 
Orders  for  a  halt  were  called  early  the  next  evening. 
There  were  no  tents  struck,  the  men  laid  on  the 
ground  with  their  blankets  around  them,  and  there 
seemed  to  be  an  atmosphere  of  dread  expectancy  of 
a  sudden  call  to  arms. 

Elise  noticed  that  the  old  man  drove  his  wagon 
aside  from  the  rest,  when  they  halted  on  a  plain  on 
the  banks  of  the  Shenandoah.  He  stopped, 
where  a  branch  road  led  off  from  the  main  road  up 
into  the  mountain  region,  and  seemed  possessed  with 
some  mysterious  secret,  which  caused  many  an 
ominous  shake  of  the  head.  It  was  a  quiet  spot 
which  he  had  chosen,  and  as  usual  he  managed  to 
screen  off  his  camp  by  his  wagon  from  all  observers. 
The  camp  fire  was  built  and  the  kettle  boiling  be- 
fore Captain  Harry  appeared.  He  was  rather 
paler  than  usual,  with  a  resolute,  firm  compression 
of  his  lips. 

"Hulloa,  little  queen  I  how  goes  it?"  he  exclaimed 
gaily,  as  he  threw  himself  on  the  ground  by  the  fire. 

Elise  quickly  and  deftly  made  him  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  while  they  were  laughing  and  chatting  over  it, 
she  noticed  that  the  old  man  was  very  busy  arrang- 
ing the  inside  of  his  wagon. 

When  Harry  had  finished,  Uncle  Pete  appeared 
and  said  mysteriously  : 


156  ELISE. 

"Better  you  sleep  in  de  team  to-night,  Massa 
Harry.  IVe  fixed  a  nice  place  in  de  front  for  de 
lile  un  :  de  mens  hab  been  drinkin'  an'  she  may  need 
you  'fore  de  mawnin'." 

The  captain  hesitated. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  said  finally.  "I  will 
see  what  I  can  do." 

Later  on,  Elise  woke  to  iiear  the  old  darkey  per- 
suading the  captain  to  take  a  hot  drink  before  lying 
down,  promising  solemnly  to  watch,  himself,  and 
call  him  at  the  least  disturbance.  Then  all  was 
lost  in  unconsciousness. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


MAUM    ROSA. 

Some  time  in  the  night,  EHse  awoke  to  the  con- 
sciousness that  the  wagon  was  moving,  and  then 
went  off  again  to  sleep.  When  she  next  awoke, 
the  faint  light  of  the  early  day  was  shining  through 
the  front  curtains  of  the  wagon.  She  felt  sick  and 
faint,  from  the  motion  of  the  wagon,  and  the  con- 
fined air  of  the  little  space  in  which  she  had  been 
sleeping  during  the  night.  She  scrambled  to  her 
feet,  steadying  herselt  by  the  back  of  the  seat,  and 
looked  out  through  the  curtains  of  thick  canvas 
which  hung  at  the  back  of  the  driver's  seat.  She 
was  at  tirst  only  conscious  of  the  delicious  feeling 
of  the  fresh  morning  air,  as  it  blew  in  her  face,  and 
then  she  looked  around  her  with  great  astonish- 
ment. 

There  was  no  one  in  sight.  No  army ;  no  Uncle 
Pete  :  onlv  the  two  mules  plodding  leisurely  up  a 
steep  hill.  One  hill  seemed  to  succeed  another  in 
the  view  before  her,  while  on  the  right,  down,  very 
far  down,  she  saw  a  deep   valley,  with  an  irregular 


158  ELISE. 

line  of  mist  rising  over  a  river,  and  far  be3ond  that 
a  blue  line,  which  might  be  the  bay,  a  black  ser- 
pent-like line  in  the  valley  which  she  thought  might 
be  the  regiment  on  the  march.  Why  then  were 
they  up  here?  and  where  was  Captain  Harry? 

She  was  greatly  relieved  to  hear  the  familiar  dron- 
ing of  a  Methodist  h}'mn,  with  which  her  intercourse 
with  Uncle  Pete  had  alread}-  accustomed  her.  The 
singer  she  now  discovered  was  walking  at  the  head 
of  the  mules,  holding  the  reins.  He  seemed  in  high 
spirits  and  occasionally  stopped  to  double  up  with 
suppressed  laughter.  Then  checking  himself,  he 
began : 

"Oh!  Canaan!  bright  Canaan  !  I'se  bound  fer  de  Ian' 
ob  Canaan." 

Again  suppressing  himself,  with  a  scared  glance 
backward,  as  if  in  fear  of  waking  someone,  and 
then  with  an  irrepressible  chuckle,  he  began  once 
more  : 

''Ef  you  git  thar  before  I  do.      I'se  boun'   fer  de  Ian' 

ob   Canaan 
Look  out  fer  me,   I'se  comin'  too.      I'se  boun'  fer  de 

Ian'  ob  Canaan." 

Greatly  puzzled  at  this  condition  of  things,  Elise 
called  out  : 

"Uncle  Pete  I  Uncle  Pete !  where  are  we,  and 
where's  the  army?" 


ET.TSE.  159 

"Hush  !  hush,  honey  !"  said  the  old  man  in  alarm. 
"You'll  wake  up  the  captain." 

"The  captain  !"  said  the  child.     "Is  he  here  too." 

She  lifted  the  curtain  behind  her  nest,  and  dis- 
covered a  long  form  wrapped  in  a  soldier's  blanket, 
stretched  over  Uncle  Pete's  stores. 

"May  I  come  down  to  you,  Uncle  Pete?"  she 
called  in  suppresed  tones. 

The  old  man  came  to  the  side  of  the  wagon,  and 
lifted  her  down,  with  one  hand  while  he  held  the 
reins  with  the  other. 

"Yer  see,  chile,"  said  he,  "dere  is  gwine  to  be  de 
biggest  kin'  of  fightin' ;  so  all  de  men  tole  me,  an' 
dat  ere  boy  ob  ourn,  Massa  Harry's  bound  to  be  in 
de  wuss  ob  it  all,  and  will  git  hurt  sure  as  can  be. 
So,  I  tole  de  mistiss  Pd  look  atter  him  berry  careful, 
I  tort  and  tort,  an'  at  las'  I  jes'  put  Hie  sumpin'  in  he 
punch  las'  night  to  make  him  sleep  hne,  an'  den  I 
tote  'im  right  off  wen  dey's  all  asleep.  Press  de 
Lord  !  de  scentry  man  knowed  me  an'  he  didn't  see 
nottin',  nottin'  'tall." 

Here  the  old  man  roared,  and  stamped,  and 
laughed  until  the  mules  stopped. 

"Dem  critters"  said  Uncle  Pete  "hab  so  much 
sense,  dey  knowd  jes'  as  well  as  myself,  and  dey 
went  out  ob  de  camp  on  tippy  toes,  jes  'as  careful, 
an'  dey  hasn't  made  a  soun'  dis  mawnin'." 

"But,  Uncle  Pete,  will  the  captain  like  it?"  said 
Elise  doubtfully. 


l6o  ELISE. 

"Laws,  chile  I  I  'spect  he'll  be  putty  mad  ;  but  dere 
I  has  to  do  it ;  yer  see,  he  hurt  hisself  sure  enough 
ef  I  didn't,  an'  his  ma  would  be  much  dis- 
pleased." 

"What  will  he  do?"  said  Elise  timidly. 

"Let  us  bress  de  Lord,  honey  I  he  cawn't  do 
nottin' ;  nottin'  'tall,  I'se  got  'im  sewed  right  up  in 
his  blanket :  he  1  he  I  he  I  I'se  won't  take  'im  out 
till  de  fight's  ober  wid  and  den  he  goes  back  to  his 
company,   yer  see,  he  I  he  !  he  I" 

Elise  ran  lightly  on  in  front  of  the  team  up  the 
hill,  stopping  here  and  there  to  bend  over  flowers, 
softly  touching  them  sometimes,  but  never  picking 
them,  singing  alow  song  to  herself,  and  then  talking 
a  little,  apparently  to  the  flowers,  birds,  or  insects, 
which  the  old  darkey  noticed  seemed  to  keep  about 
her.  He  watched  her  for  a  time  with  some  awe, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  see  a  kind  of 
radiance   around  her. 

"Dat  chile  is  one  ob  de  blessed  ones,  sure  'nuf," 
he  said,  but  his  attention  was  withdrawn  from  her 
by  a  stir,  a  groan,  and  then  an  exclamation  of  as- 
tonishment from  his  wagon,  followed  b}' : 

"Hello,  Uncle  Pete!  Hello  you!  What  in  the 
name  of  goodness  !      Hello  there,  I  sa\-." 

Uncle  Pete  walked  on  serenel}',  innocentl\'  oblivi- 
ous, but  rather  scared,  chucklin<i[  to  himself  a  little. 

The  captain  wriggled  himself  to  a  sitting  position, 
and  put  his  head  through  the  canvas  at  the  sides. 


ELISE.  l6l 

"What  under  Heaven  and  earth  does  all  this 
mean?"  roared  the  poor  captain.  "Where  are  we? 
You  miserable  old  idiot,  come  here  and  let  me  out." 

"Laws,  Massa  Harry  !"  said  the  old  man.  "Yer 
knows  de  mistiss  don't  prove  ob  fights,  and  I  done 
promis'  her  to  look  atter  yer  an'  keep  yer  out  ob  de 
fights,  and  de  boys  hyar,  dey  tole  me  dat  dere 
gwine  to  be  de  biggest  kin'  ob  fight  dat  eber  was  ; 
so  you  jes'  lay  down  easy,  and  by-'m-by  I'll  loose 
yer." 

"You  good  for  nothing,  confounded  old  darkey  I 
don't  you  know  that  you've  disgraced  us  forever? 
That  I  shall  be  shot  for  deserting,  and  none  of  us  can 
ever  hold  our  heads  up  again?  You  have  disgraced 
us  all  irretrievably.  My  God  I  what  a  situation  !  I 
believe  I  shall  go  crazy.  Come  here  I  say,  and  cut 
these  strings.  I'll  have  you  sold.  I'll  never  speak 
to  you  again  while  I  live.  I'll  shoot  you  down  the 
minute  I'm  free.     Obey  this  instant." 

"Lordy,  please  forgib  dat  'ere  boy's  bad  words ; 
he  knows  better,  fer  his  ma  nebber  'low  him  to  talk 
dat  way ;  but  please  'scuse  him,  Lordy,  he'll  be 
sorry  by-'m-by,  wen  he  gits  ober  bein'  mad,"  said 
Uncle  Pete,  and,  as  the  captain  began  to  get  frantic 
in  his  struggle  to  free  himself,  he  mounted  the  seat  to 
keep  an  eye  on  him. 

Captain  Webber  finding  himself  so  securely  sewed 
in  the  blanket  that  it  was  impossible  to  get  free, 
was  silent  and  quiet  now  for  a  time,  trying  to  grasp 


l62  ELISE. 

the  situtation,  and  considering  how  he  could  meet  it, 
for  even  if  his  story  were  believed  by  his  superior 
officers,  what  a  laughing  stock  to  the  whole  regi- 
ment he  would  be,  to  be  carried  off  like  a  baby  by 
his  old  nurse  ;  death  seemed  to  him  then  his  only 
resource.  What  a  terrible  misfortune  had  befallen 
him  ! 

The  mules  began  ascending  another  long  hill, 
and  Uncle  Pete,  weary  from  his  long  watch,  began 
to  nod.  The  captain  was  aroused  from  his  stupor  of 
despair,  by  a  cool  little  hand  on  his  brow,  and  a 
whisper  in  his  ear  : 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  Captain  Harry?" 

The  child  had  climbed  up  the  hanging  step  be- 
hind the  wagon,  and  was  now  pit3'ingly  regarding 
the  fallen  hero. 

"  Oh,  Elise  I  You  blessed  little  angel,  I  knew 
the  Lord  sent  you  to  me.  Be  quick  now,  there's 
a  dear  child.  There  to  the  right  is  my  belt;  draw 
out  now  very  carefully  the  long  knife  :  there  now 
put  it  in  my  right  hand  under  the  blanket,  be 
careful,  dear,  you'll  cut  yourself:  now  run  ahead 
of  the  team,  again,  or  Uncle  Pete  will  be  looking 
for  yoii." 

Obedient  to  the  letter,  the  child  was  soon  up  the 
long  hill  in  front  of  the  mules,  engaged  in  saying  her 
beads  begging  our  Blessed  Mother  to  intercede  and 
preserve  from  all  harm  him  whom  she  had  just 
loosed  from  his  bonds. 


ELISE.  163 

Uncle  Pete  was  rudely  roused  from  his  nap,  by  a 
sound  box  on  his  ear,  with  : 

"Take  that,  you  infernal  old  idiot,  for  meddling 
with  the  affairs  of  your  superiors.  It's  time  you 
found  out  who  they  are,"  and  the  young  captain 
unfastened  his  horse  from  behind  the  wa^on,  and 
clattered  down  the  hill,  as  if  the  enemy  were  after 
him. 

"Who  did  dat?"  shouted  the  old  man.  "Whar's 
datboy?" 

And  looking  behind,  he  found  that  his  prisoner 
had  escaped. 

On  seeing  this,  the  old  man  completely  broke 
■down. 

"Oh  Lordy !  Lordy !"  he  moaned,  "he's  shore 
be  killed — he's  shore  be  killed !  I  did  my  bes', 
mistis,  'deed  I  did,"  and  the  tears  rolled  down  his 
wrinkled  old  face. 

In  an  instant  Elise  was  by  his  side,  her  little  arms 
around  his  neck,  and  her  soft  kisses  on  his  rough 
old  cheek. 

"He  will  be  safe,  Uncle  Pete,  I  know  it  sure.  I 
know  he  will  not  be  hurt,  and  Madame  Webber 
would  be  ver}^  angry  if  we  had  taken  him  away 
from  his  company,"  she  added  very  impressively. 

Uncle  Pete  found  himself  greatly  comforted,  and 
looked  at  the  child. 

"Are  you  shore?"  said  he,  anxiously. 

"Siu-e  !"  said  she  positively. 


H54  ELISE. 

"I  believes  ye,  missy,"  said  the  old  man  meekly. 
"I  tinks  de  angels  tells  yer." 

"They  do,  Uncle  Pete;  they  do.  You  will  bring 
the  captain  back  safely  to  his  mother,  and  I  shall  be 
with  papa,  and  all  will  be  so  happy,"  and  she  clapped 
her  hands  and  laughed  gleefully. 

"God  grant  it,  child!"  he  said  solemrdy.  "Any- 
how we  got  'bout  to  de  top  ob  de  hill,  and  we'll 
turn  in  hyar  and  gib  dem  pore  critters  a  rest  and  den 
we'se  goes  down  udder  side  an'  kitches  de  army." 

They  now  turned  off  into  a  wild  wood  road ;  the 
forest  closed  them  in  on  both  sides.  Elise  resumed 
her  place  bv  the  old  man's  side  and  they  drove  on 
in  silence.  It  was  all  so  beautiful.  The  road  was 
overgrown  with  grass  on  which  the  flickering  lights 
and  shadows  seemed  to  pla}'  and  dance.  The  tink- 
ling of  the  mules'  bells,  the  song  of  the  wild  birds  and 
the  music  of  a  little  brook  over  the  stones  were  the 
only  sounds  to  be  heard.  The  brook  ran  along  side 
the  road  in  a  little  ravine  and  crossed  the  road  once 
or  twice.  It  was  spanned  at  these  places  by 
round  wooden  logs  joined  closely  together.  On  they 
drove  through  the  forest  aisles,  arched  by  the  trees, 
and  finally  the  road  ended  in  a  large  open  space, 
before  a  grand  old  stone  mansion. 

It  seemed  quite  empty,  and  deserted.  They 
waited  and  listened  a  little  time  for  the  occupants. 
Uncle  Pete  hallooed  once  or  twice,  but  the  only 
response   was  a    bit  of  bark  thrown   angrily  down 


ELISE.  165 

on  them,  from  an  overarching  elm  in  front  of  the 
mansion  ;  and  looking  up  they  saw  a  pair  of  large 
grey  squirrels,  who  were  scolding  and  chattering" 
noisily  at  the  intruders. 

"Dey's  nobuddy  hyar,  dat's  a  fac,"  said  Uncle  Pete 
finally.  "Spec's  dey's  done  gone  Norf,"  he  said 
with  a  sigh.  "We'll  just  stay  hyar  tru  de  heat  ob 
de  day  and  den  we'll  trabb'l  atter  dat  bad  boy." 

He  got  down  from  the  wagon,  and  lifted  down 
the  child,  first  attending  to  the  wants  of  Zedekiah 
and  Ezekiel  as  he  ahva3's  did,  while  Elise  went  off 
to  explore  the  mansion.  He  was  proceeding  to 
build  a  fire  and  look  for  fresh  water,  when  a  dull 
boom  sounded  faintly  on  his  ear.  The  old  man 
startled  convulsively  and  then  fell  on  his  knees,  wring- 
ing and  clasping  his  hands  alternately. 

"Oh  Lordy  I  Oh  Lordy  !  he's  dere.  I  know'd  it 
I  know'd  it,"  he  said,  rocking  himself  to  and  fro. 
"Oh  !  Lordy,  Oh  !  Lordy." 

Again  Elise  was  at  his  side. 

"Let  us  go,  uncle,"  she  said.  "Let  us  go  and 
find  him." 

"No,  lile  missy,  not  jes'  now^we  must  wait  a  wile^ 
an'  den  we  go  down  and  fine  him." 

Mechanically,  he  went  on  with  his  work.  They 
heard  no  more  of  the  distant  cannon.  Elise  went 
into  the  house  and  found,  to  her  delight,  a  kitchen 
built  at  the  back  in  which  there  was  a  cistern  of 
running  water.      It  was  not  locked,  so  she  went  in 


1 66  ELISE. 

and  made  the  best  toilet  that  she  could,  under  the 
circumstances,  and  came  out  again,  fresh  as  a  rose,  to 
her  old  friend.  He  persuaded  her  to  eat  and  drink, 
and  did  so  himself,  and  in  spite  of  their  fear,  and 
anxiety  they  both  felt  new  strength  and  courage,  so 
dependent  are  we  on  these  vile  bodies  of  ours.  Then 
all  was  packed  up  once  more,  andElise  tried  to  per- 
suade the  old  man  to  take  a  quiet  rest,  and  smoke, 
hut  she  could  not  coax  him  to  his  accustomed  siesta. 
He  looked  around  uneasily,  uncertain  what  to  do. 

The  house  before  them  had  been  a  grand  mansion 
in  its  day.  It  was  built  of  grey  stone.  The  two 
wings  and  the  centre  formed  three  sides  of  a  quad- 
rangle. In  the  centre  was  a  deep  arched  recess 
which  formed  the  principal  entrance  to  the  building. 
The  steps  leading  down  from  this  entrance  were  of 
stone.  They  were  now  broken,  and  falling  apart. 
On  these,  Uncle  Pete  and  Elise  were  seated.  The 
arch  was  covered  with  climbing  roses,  in  full  bloom  ; 
from  the  roses  darted  a  humming  bird  with  gorgeous 
■  colors  which  fluttered  around  and  around  Elise's 
face  as  though  striving  to  find-  an  entrance  to  extract 
.the  honey. 

She  clasped  her  hands  in  ecstasv. 

•"Oh  it  is  so  beautiful  I"  she  said.  "And  the  dear 
angels  do  it  all." 

■"Do  all  what,  chile?"  said  Uncle  Pete. 

"'Why  everything,  the  coloring,  the  flowers,  the 
birds  and  sky.     All  the  frost,  rain,  snow  and  wind." 


ELISE.  167 

"Land  sakes  !  I  nebber  heerd  tell  ob  dat  afore," 
said  Uncle  Pete.  "Itink,  honey,  you's  made  a  mis- 
take, it  is  de  Lawd  dat  do  all  dat." 

"Yes,  uncle,  but  you  know  the  angels  are  His 
servants,  and  the  saints  belong  to  His  household,  and 
they  minister  to  us  for  Him." 

"Dat's  so  chile,  dat's  so,  but  I  nebber  tought  ob  de 
way  afore." 

"Did  you  know  the  people  who  used  to  live  here, 
uncle?"  said  the  child,  after  a  little  silence. 

"Why  no,  chile,  I  don't  know  presently  w'ere  we 
are,  but  I  'spose  I  know'd  'em  ef  I  heerd  dere  names. 
I  know  all  de  folk  in  dis  part  ob  de  kentry,  but  dey 
hasn't  libbed  hyar,  fer  many  a  day,  I  tinks." 

"There  are  spirits  here  who  need  our  prayers," 
said  the  child  faintly.  "I  felt  them  in  the  house, 
and  I  feel  them  now^  Let  us  go  inside,  and  we  will 
say  the  Rosaries  of  our  Blessed  Lady  and  for  the 
Dead  for  them,  the  poor  souls." 

As  she  spoke,  she  went  up  to  a  large  bay  window 
in  one  of  the  wings  and  looked  in.  It  was  a  large 
drawing  room  taking  up  the  greater  part  of  the  wing. 
The  entire  room  was  heavily  panelled  in  oak. 
Opposite  the  window  through  which  she  was  look- 
ing, was  an  immense  stone  fire  place.  Over  this  the 
panelling  was  even  more  elaborately  carved,  and  in 
front  of  the  fire  place  was  a  large  hearth  stone.  The 
room  was  completely  dismantled,  there  was  not  an 
article  of  furniture  to  be  seen,  and  there  was  a  mel 


1 68  ELTSE. 

ancholy,  dismal  look  within,  that  made  the  old  man 
shudder,  and  turn  away,  saving: 

"Oh,  no,  chile  !  I  wouldn't  go  in  dere  fer  all  de 
worl'." 

"Well  then,"  said  the  child,  "We  will  pray  for 
them  right  here,  under  the  trees.  But  the  spirits 
will  not  hurt  you.  Uncle  Pete." 

"One  nebber  kin  tell,  chile,"  said  the  old  man.  "I 
can't  say  no  pra'rs.  Dere  ole  Moses  he  kin  preach 
and  pray  b}^  de  yard,  but  dis  ole  darkey  he  don' 
know  no  pra'rs  'tall." 

Again  the  sound,  boom  !  boom  !  !  boom  !  !  I  came 
faintly  to  their  ears  on  the  breeze. 

"Oh  pray,  chile!  pray  anyhow,  anyway,  fer  de 
3^oung  massa,"  said  he,  turning  pale  under  his  black 
skin.  "Oh!  Lordy,  hab  merc}^ ;  and  spare  him, 
spare  his  poor,  dear  mudder." 

"There    is    another    mother    who    will    feel    for 
and  pray  for  her,  if  we  ask  her.    Come  Uncle  Pete  !'' 

It  was  a  strange  sight  to  seethe  fair,  straight  young 
form,  and  the  bent  one  of  the  old  man  pacing  up 
and  down  the  walk  in  front  of  the  old  mansion. 
Elise  saying  her  beads  and  instructing  the  old  man 
in  his  responses. 

The  shadows  were  beginning  to  get  long,  when 
they  had  finished,  and  the  old  man  announced  that 
it  was  time  to  go.  With  a  sorrowful  heart,  filled 
with  dread  and  terror  of  what  might  lie  before  them, 
he  harnessed  the  mules  into  his  wa^on. 


ELISE.  169 

They  drove  back  through  the  forest,  to  the  high 
road  again  and  began  to  descend  on  the  other  side 
of  the  mountain.  When  they  came  to  the  brow  of 
the  hill  they  both  exclaimed  at  the  prospect  which 
lay  stretched  suddenly  before  them.  In  the  distance 
was  a  range  of  dim  blue  hills,  and  behind  these  the 
sun  was  setting.  A  glorious,  3'et  gloomy,  and  angry 
sunset. 

The  whole  western  sky  was  flooded  with  a  bright 
orange  flame,  except  a  bank  of  threatening  clouds 
Avhich  hung  lowering  in  the  west,  a  few  feet  above 
the  horizon.  The  sun  had  sunk  a  little  below  these 
and  glared  like  a  bright  red  ball  of  fire,  while  bars 
like  iron,  formed  by  the  clouds,  stretched  across  its 
face.  Far  down  in  the  valley  was  again  that  dark 
serpent-like  line,  and  the  glint  of  the  setting  sun  on 
the  bayonets,  showed  them  to  be  soldiers  marching 
to  their  fate. 

Then  the  sun  disappeared  and  darkness  descended 
on  the  poor  valley,  so  soon  to  be  desolated  by  the 
cruel  fate  of  war.  Wearied  out  by  the  events  of  the 
■day,  the  little  one  fell  asleep,  with  her  head  on  Uncle 
Pete's  shoulder,  and  even  the  jolting  of  the  wagon 
■down  the  rough  hills  or  its  stopping  some  hours 
later,  failed  to  rouse  her.  It  was  very  late  when 
Uncle  Pete  finally  reined  up  before  a  low  brick 
house,  by  the  side  of  the  road,  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountain.  It  was  a  pretty  little  one-story  cottage  of 
brick  with  the  addition  of  a  kitchen  in  the  rear,  built 


I/O  ELISE. 

of  wood  and  painted  the  color  of  the  bricks.  Every- 
thing was  covered  with  vines  and  the  perfect  order 
of  the  place  made  it  most  attractive.  Uncle  Pete 
shouted  in  vain  for  some  time,  but  at  length  a  window 
opened  and  a  man's  voice  enquired:  "What  is 
wanted  ?" 

"Let  us  bress  de  Lord  !  Ned,  you  foolish  boy," 
was  Uncle  Pete's  response.  "Don't  yer  know  Uncle 
Pete?" 

The  window  slammed  down,  and  a  young  man 
soon  appeared  at  the  door,  and  then  came  to  the 
wagon  side. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said.  "How  could  I  know  it 
was  you,  uncle.  I  thought  'twas  a  crowd  of  those 
rascally  soldiers  ;  they  nearly  cleared  us  out  last 
week.  If  we  hadn't  been  ready  for  them  and  driven 
the  stock  to  the  mountains,  and  hid  the  rest  of  our 
goods,  we  shouldn't  have  had  a  thing  left.  But 
you're  welcome  !  you're  welcome,  we  are  wanting 
your  good,  common-sense  advice.  Get  down  and 
come  in,  while  I  put  up  your  team." 

"Can't  stop,  boy,  dis  time,"  explained  the  old  man. 
"I  wants  yer  to  take  care  ob  dis  yere  lile  gal  fer  me 
wiles  I  go  fer  de  young  massa." 

Great  was  Ned  Brown's  astonishment  when  Elise 
was  placed  in  his  outstretched  arms.  Begging- 
Uncle  Pete  to  wait  one  minute,  he  carried  the  sleep- 
ing child  into  the  house  without  waking  her. 

Maum  Rosa  and  her  son  Ned  were  the  sole  oc- 


ELISE.  i/r 

cupants  of  the  little  cottage.  Maum  Rosa  had  been 
nurse,  first,  and  later, maid  to  a  wealthy  planter's  family 
for  the  last  twenty-five  years.  Now,  all  her  charges' 
having  grown  beyond  her  care,  she  was  honorably 
retired.  Her  son  was  still  coachman  on  the  plan- 
tation, but  his  mother  had  secured  for  him  a  fairly 
good  education,  while  she  herself  had  insensibly 
imbibed  the  good  language  and  gentle  manners  of 
those  around  her.  She  came  out  now  to  the  wagon 
with  her  son,  and  listened  with  both  surprise  and- 
amusementto  Uncle  Pete's  story.  They  both  joined 
in  begging  him  to  remain  with  them,  representing 
that  the  state  of  the  country  was  such  that  he  was 
sure  to  lose  his  beloved  mules,  and  goods,  if  he 
went  on  alone  that  night,  while  he  could  easily  find 
the  regiment  next  day  by  the  aid  of  daylight, 

"Lie  down  and  sleep,"  said  Maum  Rosa  pityingly, 
"I  will  call  you  at  four,  and  you  can  get  away 
before  the  child  wakes,  and  I  will  take  good  care  of 
her  until  you  bring  back  Captain  Webber." 

This  arrangement  was  finally  carried  out,  and  the 
first  ray  of  the  morning  sun  saw  the  old  man  hope- 
fully depart.  His  strength  and  courage  greatly  re- 
vived by  the  sympathy  of  his  friends,  and  his  night's 
rest. 

When  Elise  woke  the  next  morning  she  sat  up  on 
the  lounge  where  she  had  been  placed  the  night  be- 
fore, and  looked  about  her  in  great  bewilderment. 
The  main  part  of  the  house  was  taken  up  by  the  liv- 


172  ELISE. 

ing  room  where  she  had  been  placed.  It  was  a 
pleasant  room  ;  the  good  taste,  neatness,  and  perfect 
order  might  have  done  credit  to  a  far  more  preten- 
tious house  than  Maum  Rosa's.  The  lounge  on 
which  Elise  was  laid  was  covered  with  a  light  buff 
linen,  the  seams  of  the  cover  corded  with  dark  crim- 
son ;  behind  it  falling  from  ceiling  to  floor  was  a 
large  fisherman's  net  and  balls,  which  formed  a 
quaint  yet  effective  background  in  grey,  and  was 
connected,  with  the  past  history  of  the  house,  with 
Maum  Rosa's  most  sacred  memories.  A  large  bay 
window  was  open  on  the  other  side,  which  looked 
out  on  the  distant  hills  covered  with  blue  haze,  while  a 
yellow  laburnum  filled  in  one  side  of  the  window 
with  its  long  fragrant  spra3's.  The  outer  door  stood 
open  and  led  directly  into  the  front  yard.  The 
floor  vv'as  covered  with  a  white  straw  matting  which 
was  protected  by  a  bright  plaid  linen  crumb  cloth. 
In  the  centre  of  this  was  a  round  table  spread  for 
breakfast;  this  was  also  covered  with  a  crimson  cloth, 
protected  with  white  linen  doilies  from  the  breakfast 
dishes.  In  a  corner,  by  the  bay  \yindo\v,  was  Ned's 
desk  and  books,  while  a  case  over  this  contained 
his  rifle  and  fishing  tackle,  plainly  showing  that  the 
room  was  used  as  a  true  living  room,  where  nothing 
was  excluded  which  could  add  to  the  comfort  and 
happiness  of  its  inmates. 

Maum   Rosa  came  in  directly  after  Elise  awoke, 
and  seeing  that  the  child  was  awake,  said  cheerfully  : 


ELISE.  173 

*'Well,  little  daughter,  you  have  had  a  good 
•sleep;  do  you  know  where  you  are?" 

"Where  is  Uncle  Pete?"  said  the  child  in  reply. 

When  she  had  heard  Maum  Rosa's  explanation, 
she  was  very  unwilling  to  remain  ;  but  she  was  a 
reasonable  child  and  saw  the  necessity  of  waiting. 
After  her  breakfast  she  went  out  to  explore  the 
premises,  and  after  her  usual  fashion  made  friends 
with  all  the  living  creatures  on  the  grounds.  After 
Maum  Rosa  had  finished  her  housework,  she  sat 
down  a  moment,  in  her  little  sewing  chair,  and  be- 
came lost  in  painful  thought  over  the  coming  strug- 
gle. Her  boy's  S3'mpathies,  she  knew,  were  all  with 
the  Northerners.  He  had  been  longing  for  his  free- 
dom ever  since  he  was  old  enough  to  know  he  was  a 
slave.  She  knew  he  would  enlist  as  soon  as  the 
opportunity  offered,  and  he  was  the  last  one  left  of 
her  once  large  famil}-. 

Suddenly,  Elise  stood  beside  her  in  silence. 
Maum  Rosa  looked  up  to  see  what  the  child  wanted, 
and  was  startled  to  see  that  Elise  was  evidently 
making  a  strong  effort  to  compose  herself,  and  was 
looking  at  her  with  large,  dilated  eyes. 

"What  is  it,  dear?  What  can  old  mammy  do  for 
you?"  she  said. 

Elise,  in  answer,  threw  herself  into  the  old  woman's 
arms  and  burst  into  tears,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart 
■would  break. 

"Oh,  mammy,"    she  said,  as    soon  as  she    could 


174    ■  ELISE. 

speak,  "there's  a  poor  little  chicken  out  there^. 
and  he  is  so  sick,  and  nobody  cares  one  bit." 

"Bless  the  dear  little  heart!"  said  Maum  Rosa, 
"Show  me  where  it  is,  and  we  will  bring  it  in  and 
give  it  the  best  of  care." 

Elise  led  the  way  to  a  farm  yard  behind  the  house,, 
and  there,  truly,  they  found,  as  she  had  said,  a  little 
chicken  on  its  back,  gasping  and  kicking  its  legs 
convulsively  in  the  air.  Elise  looked  indignantly  at 
the  old  mother  hen,  who  was  heartlessly  scratching 
for  the  rest  of  her  brood  at  a  little  distance,  quite: 
content  without  the  missing  one. 

Ned  came  to  the  barn  door  to  see  what  they 
wanted,  and  as  Maum  Rosa  gathered  the  little 
chicken  betewen  her  two  hands,  in  order  to  warm 
it,  he  said  : 

"No  use,  mother,  that's  a  'goner!'  the  old  hen 
left  it  out  last  night,  and  it  got  chilled.  It's  too  far 
gone  for  even  you  to  bring  back  to  life." 

"You  went  right  by  it,  and  didn't  care,"  Scid 
Elise  indignantly,  the  fire  flashing  from  her  eyes. 

The  young  man  laughed  and  said  teasingly : 

"Let  it  stay  with  its  mother  then.  Chickens 
that  run  away  from  their  mothers  deserve  to  come  to 
grief." 

"I  did  not  run  away  from  mine,"  said  Elise  gravely. 
Then  she  turned  and  went  into  the  house,  followed 
by  Maum  Rosa.  Here  they  got  an  old  pasteboard- 
box  which  they  lined  with  cotton-wool,  and  placed 


ELISE.  175' 

the  chicken  in  it  under  the  kitchen  stove.  After  a 
httle,  it  began  to  peck  at  some  chicken  dough,  in 
which  Maum  Rosa  had  sprinkled  a  little  ca)'enne 
pepper,  and  in  a  few  hours,  Elise  had  the  supreme 
satisfaction  of  seeing  it  join  the  family  brood  as  wel 
as  ever. 

As  the  day  drew  near  to  its  close,  Elise  became 
very  restless  and  uneasy,  indeed  all  were  in  sym- 
pathy with  her ;  it  was  something  in  the  atmosphere. 
Nothing  had  been  heard  from  Uncle  Pete,  though 
the  child  had  been  constantly  on  the  watch  for  him.. 
She  gathered  from  listening  to  Maum  Rosa's  and 
Ned's  conversation,  that  there  had  been  fighting  not 
far  distant,  but  no  one  knew  the  result,  or  extent  of 
the  battle. 

"Uncle  Pete  should  have  taken  me  with  him,  he 
promised  the  captain  he  would  ;  he  should  not  have- 
left  me  here  in  this  country,"  she  said,  with  her  eyes 
full  of  tears. 

"Well,  dear,  he  will  soon  be  back,  please  God," 
said  Maum  Rosa,  gently.  "And  we  must  try  to 
patiently  wait  God's  will." 

Then  losing  herself  in  dark  forebodings  of  herboy's- 
future,  the  poor  old  woman  rocked  to  and  fro  with 
anguish. 

"This  one,  too,  dear  Lord,"  she  moaned.  "Oh  ! 
spare  me  this  one." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  tell  you  a  story  about 
some  brave  soldiers?"  said  the  child,  diffidently,  lean- 


T76  ELISE. 

ing  against  the  old  woman's  shoulder,  putting  her 
arm  lovingly  around  her  neck,  and  peering  anxiously 
into  her  face. 

"Do,  dearest,"  said  Maum  Rosa.  "I  am  a  selfish 
old  woman,  thinking  only  of  myself." 

"Well,"  said  the  child,  seating  herself  on  a  has- 
sock at  her  feet,  "once  upon  a  time,  in  a  country, 
I  can't  remember  where,  but  very,  very  long  ago, 
there  was  a  brave  company  of  Catholic  soldiers, 
only  forty  of  them." 

"And  the  rest  of  the  regiment  was  Protestant, 
I  suppose,  said  Maum  Rosa. 

"No,  pagan,"  said  the  child,  "people  who  wor- 
shipped idols,  there  were  no  Protestants  in  those  days, 
they  hadn't  come  then  ;  everyone  was  either  Catholic 
— some  good,  and  some  bad — or  else  they  were 
pagans. 

"Well,  these  forty  were  very  good  and  brave 
men,  the  best  the  emperor  had — and  he  was  very 
proud  of  them;  but  you  know  the  emperor  was  a 
pagan,  and  Satan  had  put  it  into  his  head  to  hate  the 
Christians,  so  one  day  he  told  all  the  army  that  they 
must  worship  his  false  god,  but  the  brave  forty  re- 
fused to  do  so.  They  marched  away  from  the 
others  and  said  that  they  couldn't  obey  the  em- 
peror in  this,  for  it  would  be  a  sin.  The  emperor 
was  fearfully  angry,"  said  Elise  earnestly,  "and  he 
liad  them  whipped  dreadful!}',  with  whips,  and  iron 
thines." 


ELISE  177 

"Elise  paused,  and  her  face  flushed. 

"Were  you  ever  whipped?"  she  said. 

"Bless  you,  no,  child  !  I  always  had  a  kind  master 
and  mistress." 

"I  was,  once,"  said  the  child  simph'.  "It  was 
dreadful." 

Mammy  smiled,  but  said  nothing. 

"Well,  these  poor  soldiers  were  whipped  until  th 
flesh  was  torn  from  their  bodies,  but  God  strength- 
ened them,  and  they  did  not  give  way.  It  was  in 
the  middle  of  winter,  and  fearfully  cold,  so  that 
everything  was  frozen  solid.  As  cold  as  the  North 
Pole,  I  suppose.  Were  you  ever  at  the  North  Pole, 
mammy?" 

"Never!  I  was  never  outside  of  Virginia,"  said 
mammy. 

"I  never  was  there,  either,  but  I  believe  it  was 
near  New  York,  where  I  am  going,  and  if  you  just 
step  out  doors  in  winter,  you  are  frozen  to  death." 

The  old  woman  was  horrified.  "The  Lord  pre- 
serve us,"  she  said,  "what  will  become  of  you?" 

"We  shan't  stay  there  long,"  said  the  child  re- 
assuringly, "we  are  going  back  to  Regalia  as  soon 
as  the  war  is  over,  and  those  bad  men  go  away. 
Well,  as  I  was  telling  you,  when  the  emperor  saw  they 
would  not  give  way,  he  said  : 

"  'You  just  take  them  down  to  the  pond  that  is 
frozen  up  solid,  take  off  their  stockings  and  shoes, 
and  all  their  clothes,  and  leave  them  there  in  the 


178  ELISE. 

cold,  no  matter  how  much  their  fingers  ache,  or  their 
toes  ache,  until  they  will  obey  me.'  Well,  the  pagans 
took  the  forty  brave  soldiers  down  as  they  were  told, 
and  took  off  their  clothes,  then  they  built  great,  roar- 
ing fires  around  the  pond,  and  said  : 

"  'Now,  whenever  you  will  obey  the  emperor  and 
worship  his  gods,  just  hold  up  your  hand,  and  you 
may  come  to  the  fire,  and  get  warm,'  But  you  know, 
the  soldiers  wanted  to  die  a  martyr's  death,  above  all 
things,  so  they  held  up  their  heads,  and  marched 
proudly  and  joyfully  down  to  the  pond.  They  knew 
they  would  soon  go  straight  to  Heaven,  and  they  all 
prayed  hard  to  God — except  one,  and  he  was  so 
proud,  and  thought  himself  so  brave  and  strong 
that  there  was  no  fear  of  his  giving  way — not  to  let 
them  give  way. 

"There  was  one  of  the  pagan  soldiers  help- 
ing to  build  the  fire,  who  happened  to  look  up  in  the 
air,  and  there  he  saw  forty  of  the  most  beautiful 
angels,  standing  near  the  men.  Thirty-nine  had 
beautiful  crowns  in  their  hands,  and  their  faces  were 
shining  with  joy,  but  one  hung  down  his  head,  and 
wept,  for  he  had  no  crown.  While  the  pagan  was 
looking  at  them,  and  wondering  at  the  sight,  one  of 
the  Christian  soldiers  gave  up,  and  held  up  his  hand, 
saying:  'I  will  obey  the  emperor,  only  take  me  to 
the  fire.'-  Then  the  pagan  soldier  sprang  quickly 
into  his  place,  with  joy,  saying:  T  am  a  Christian, 
and  will  take  his  place.' 


ELISE.  179 

"So  they  took  off  the  pagan's  clothes,  and  put 
them  on  the  poor  Christian,  who  had  given  way,  and 
•carried  him  to  the  fire,  but  no  sooner  did  he  get 
there,  than  he  died."  Elise  sighed  deeply.  "He 
did  not  pray  to  God,  you  see,  and  he  could  not 
bear  the  dreadful  cold.  Well,  the  others  died  by 
degrees,  and  when  the  morning  came,  there  was 
only  one  left  who  was  still  breathing.  The  soldiers 
wanted  to  save  him,  but  his  mother  said:  'No,  do 
not  keep  my  dear  child  from  his  martyr's  crown,  but 
put  him  on  the  cart  with  the  others.'  And  so  they 
did,  and  then  threw  all  the  bodies  into  the  fire,  and 
they  were  all  burned." 

Elise's  face  was  radiant  with  triumph. 

"That  was  a  bad  mother,"  said  Maum  Rosa,  sol- 
emnly. 

"Oh  no,  mammy,"  said  the  child.  "She  was  a 
brave,  true  mother ;  she  cared  more  for  Heaven  than 
earth.  Wouldn't  you?"  and  the  child  fixed  her 
eyes  earnestly  on  the  old  woman's.  "The  dead  3'ou 
know  are  living." 

"Goodness,  child  I"  said  Maum  Rosa,  "you 
make  me  shiver.  Now,  dear,  I  am  going  to  make 
you  a  little  bed  here  on  the  lounge,  and  you  shall 
sleep,  while  I  wash  and  mend  your  clothes,  so  you 
will  be  all  ready  to  go  with  Uncle  Pete  when  he 
comes  for  you." 

The  child's  answer  was  a  hearty  hug  and  kiss,  as 
she  said : 


i8o 


ELISE. 


"You  are  so  good  to   me,   dear  mammy." 

Ned  came  in,  soon  after,  and  with  a  teasing- 
laugh,  he  said  : 

"Miss  Elise  won't  speak  to  me  because  I  didn't 
look  after  the  chicken." 

"Oh  !  yes,  I  will,"  said  the  child,  "and  Oh  !  Ned^ 
if  Uncle  Pete  don't  come  soon,  won't  you  take  me 
to  the  army,  and  help  to  find  Captain  Harry?" 

"Take  a  little  girl  like  you  to  the  army  !  You  must 
have  the  cheek  of  a  brass  monkey." 

Elise  wonderingh'  put  up  her  hand,  and  pinched 
her  cheek  to  make  sure  it  was  still  soft,  but  when  she 
turned  to  Ned  for  further  information,  he  was  talk- 
ing earnestly  to  his  mother,  in  low  tones,  and  before 
he  had  finished,  the  child  was  fast  asleep. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

MISS  JONES. 

It  was  very  early  the  next  morning  when  Elise 
awoke  from  her  sleep  ;  she  sat  up,  and  looked  about 
her.  Her  clothing,  neatly  washed  and  ironed,  lay  on 
the  chair  near. 

"Dear  mammy,"  she  whispered,  "how  good  she 
is  to  me  ;  but  I  must  not  stay  here  any  longer.  I  must 
go  to  papa,  and  if  I  wait  any  longer  she  will  stop  me. 
Dear  angel  show  me  the  way,  and  keep  me  from  al], 
evil." 

She  arose,  and  dressed  herself  quietly,  and  then 
stepped  out  of  the  open  window,  lest  opening  the 
door  should  wake  some  one.  It  was  past  three  in 
the  morning,  and  a  dim  light  was  beginning  to  show 
itself   in  the  eastern  horizon. 

"  Good-bye,  dear  mammy,"  said  she,  kissing  her 
hand  toward  the  house,  "and  thank  you  for  all  your 
kindness  ;  but  I  must  go  to  papa." 

She  went  down  the  path,  and  took  the  high  road 
to  Washington,  without  any  doubt  or  hesitation  as 
to  the  way,  and  walked  swiftly  away.      The  road  lay 


l82  ELISE; 

along  the  river,  and  was  bordered  by  plantations. 
It  was  only  shaded  at  intervals  and  left  her  to  the 
mercy  of  the  dust  and  rays  of  the  sun.  But  she 
walked  steadily  for  two  hours  without  stopping  or 
faltering.  It  was  with  a  thankful  sigh  that  she  came 
to  a  group  of  trees,  beside  the  road,  under  which 
was  a  large  stone  watering  trough  for  horses,  and  sat 
down  by  it,  completely  exhausted.  Owing  to  the 
early  hour,  she  had  met  no  one  thus  tar,  and  had 
not  dared  to  enter  a  house  for  fear  of  being  detained. 
It  was  a  lovel}^  spot  where  she  was  resting.  The 
watering  trough  was  composed  of  a  large  bowlder, 
the  top  of  which  was  hollowed  out  in  the  shape  of  a 
basin,  while  the  water  fell  into  it  with  a  musical 
sound  from  a  pipe  leading  out  of  the  bank  above, 
the  whole  being  overshadowed  by  two  or  three 
large  pines.  She  went  up  to  the  rock,  and  bathed 
her  face  and  hands,  and  then  tried  to  catch  some  in 
her  mouth  as  it  fell.  She  was  not  very  successful  in 
this,  but  found  these  few  drops  deliciously  cool,  and, 
with  a  thanksgiving,  sat  down  under  the  trees. 

"Now,  if  you  please,"  she  said,  "I  would  like 
.•something  to  eat." 

There  was  no  one  there ;  at  least  no  one  visible  to 
human  eyes,  but  hardly  had  the  words  escaped  her 
lips,  when  her  attention  was  arrested  by  shouts,  and 
presently  two  little  negro  boys  came  racing  down  the 
road,  one  driving  the  other  who  carried  a  water  pail. 
They  might  have  been  eight  or  ten  years  of  age. 


ELISE.  183 

The  elder  one  was  the  driver,  and  the  younger 
represented  a  restive  horse,  and  was  tossing  his  head, 
champing  the  bit,  and  giving  his  driver  great 
trouble.  They  stopped  short  when  they  saw  Elise, 
and  looked  anxiously  at  her,  but  did  not  speak. 

"I  wish,"  said  Elise,  wistfully,  to  them,  "you 
would  bring  me  some  breakfast." 

"Haven't  you  had  any?"  said  Peter,  the  older  bo}'. 
■< 'Where  do  you  live?" 

"Oh  !  very,  very  far  from  here,"  said  the  child. 
"I  have  been  walking  a  long  time,  and  I  am  so  tired 
and  hungry." 

"Well,"  said  Peter,  "come  up  to  the  house,  and 
mammy  will  give  you  some  breakfast." 

"No;" said  Elise,  "no  one  must  know  I  am  here, 
or  they  would  not  let  me  go  and  find  papa.  Can 
you  keep  it  a  secret  for  a  little  while?" 

"lean,"  said  Peter,  promptly,  "and  Jone  had  better, 
•or  he  knows  what  he'll  get  if  he  tells,"  threateningly 
glancing  at  his  brother. 

"I  won't  neither,"  said  Jone,  thus  dared.  "Mammy 
says  secrets  are  sin,  and  I  tell  her  everything,  and 
I'll  tell  this  one,  too,"  with  a  look  of  defiance  at 
Peter. 

"Oh  I"  said  Elise  coaxingly,  "I  don't  think  this  is 
■one  that  she  would  not  like  you  to  keep ;  you  can 
tell  her  when  I  have  gone  away,  but  you  would  not 
like  to  keep  me  from  my  papa,  would  you?" 

"No,"  said  Jone  slowly,  "I  like  you." 


l84  ELISE. 

"So  do  I,"  said  Peter.  "Now  you  keep  Jone  here  ; 
he's  such  a  little  fellow  he'll  be  sure  to  blab.  Mammy 
lets  us  bring  our  breakfast  out,  and  ours  is  just  ready. 
I'll  go  and  get  it."' 

So  saying,  he  filled  his  water  pail,  and  set  off  as 
fast  as  his  burden  would  let  him,  and  Jone,  nothing 
loth,  sat  down  by  her  side. 

"Soldiers  come  here,  sometimes,"  he  said,  digging 
his  bare  toes  in  the  mud,  "and  we  run  away  and 
hide.  You'd  better  run,  too,  when  you  hear  'em 
comin',  or  they'll  carry  3-ou  off  to  'bugaboo.'  " 

"What  kind  of  soldiers?"  said  Elise,  hoping  to 
find  some  trace  of  Captain  Harry. 

"Big  ones,  on  great  big  horses,  that  come  'calump- 
ing'  down  the  road,  as  I  did,"  and  his  eyes  grew  big 
as  he  watched  to  see  the  effect  on  Elise. 

Peter  soon  came  back  with  a  tin  pail  of  coffee,  and 
a  large  round  hoe  cake. 

"This  is  our  breakfast,"  said  he,  politely,  "but 
Jone  and  I  can  get  plenty  more  by-and-by,  and  you 
must  eat  this,"  and  he  frowned  severely  at  Jone  who 
seemed  on  the  point  of  rebelling. 

"Here  is  plenty  for  all,"  said  Elise.  "If  you  will  get 
me  the  tin  cup  that  is  hanging  up  there,  I  will  take 
out  some  coffee,  and  you  boys  can  have  the  rest." 

It  was  soon  divided  as  she  suggested,  and  the  three 
greatly  enjoyed  their  breakfast  under  the  pines. 
Elise  did  much  better  than  usual,  her  long  morning 
walk  giving  her  an  appetite. 


ELISE.  185 

When  she  had  finished,  and  again  bathed  her 
face  and  hands  in  the  spring,  she  prepared  to  go. 
The  boys  begged  her  to  stay  with  them,  offered  to  go 
with  her  and  assist  in  finding  her  father.  They 
were  so  urgent  and  determined  that  EHse  sent  them 
back  with  the  pail,  and  took  advantage  of  their 
absence,  to  start  northward  once  more.  With 
renewed  courage  and  hope,  the  child  ran  down  the 
road  again,  but  very  soon  slackened  her  pace.  The 
sun  beat  down  hotly  on  her  head,  she  began  to  feel 
dizzy  and  faint,  and  was  obliged  to  rest  often.  She 
met  occasional  parties  of  soldiers,  but  very  few 
civilians  were  abroad,  and  she  would  hide  herself 
behind  the  trees,  and  fences,  at  the  approach  of 
these. 

Was  it  at  the  bidding  of  her  angel? 

As  it  began  to  grow  toward  mid-day,  the  houses 
grew  thicker,  and  Elise  thinking  she"  was  drawing 
near  a  town,  took  a  branch  road,  leaving  the  main 
road  by  which  she  had  been  travelling,  still  fearing 
to  be  detained.  With  languid  steps  the  child  crept 
on  wearily,  and  finally  stopped  before  a  little  cabin 
by  the  road  side.  It  stood  alone  on  the  river  bank ; 
there  were  no  other  houses  in  sight.  It  was  a  tiny 
little  white  cottage  of  about  three  rooms,  with  a 
large  cotton-wood  tree  at  the  back,  which  sheltered 
and  shaded  it. 

The  child  looked  at  it  wistfully,  but  would  have 
passed  on  had  she  not  been  arrested  by  the   pierc- 


1 86  ELISE. 

ing  shrieks  of  a  child,  nay,  more,  two  or  three- 
seemed  joining  the  chorus  within.  She  listened  a; 
minute  ;  the  cries  grew  louder,  and  there  was  no- 
sound  of  an  older  voice  among  them.  After  a  little 
longer  hesitation,  Elise  went  timidly  up  to  the  door,. 
and  rapped. 

There  was  no  response ;  the  cries  stopped  for  an. 
instant,  and  then  began  louder  than  ever. 

She  then  went  around  to  the  window  at  the  side,. 
and  ventured  to  look  in.  What  she  saw  there  made 
her  open  the  window  quickly,  and  climb  into  the  room. 
In  the  room  was  a  boy  of  about  five  or  six  years, 
of  age,  dressed  in  a  little  flannel  night  dress,  another, 
two  years  younger,  similarly  attired,  and  a  baby  in 
a  cradle,  the  three  screaming  with  all  their  power,  fro  m 
fright  and  terror.  The  older  boy  had  thrown  him- 
self against  the  front  door,  and  was  beating  it  with 
all  his  might.  As  Elise  entered,  the  noise  ceased^ 
and  the  children  stared  at  her  with  eyes  and  mouth 
wide  open  with  surprise. 

"What  is  the  matter?  Where  is  your  mother?"" 
said  Elise. 

"Mammy!  mammy!  I  want  my  mammy!'" 
screamed  the  older  boy  beginning  to  cr}'  again,  and 
the  other  two  promptly  took  up  the  chorus. 

Elise  decided  that  desperate  measures  must  be 
taken  at  once,  and  looked  around  her. 
Dirt  and  confusion  reigned  supreme  ;  a  bed  in  the 
corner  was  unmade :  the  children  had  probably 
tumbled  out  of  it  at  an  early  hour. 


ELISE.  187 

Broken  dishes,  soiled  clothing,  rags  and  shoes^ 
were  scattered  about;  a  dirty  table,  minus  a  leg^ 
leaned  against  the  wall  under  the  window,  with  a 
disreputable  air,  and  the  two  chairs  looked  equaUy 
dissipated  and  disabled.  She  picked  her  way  across 
the  room,  and  opened  a  door  at  the  back,  which. 
looked  directly  on  the  quiet,  glittering  river. 

In  the  yard  here,  was  the  same  confusion  ;  a  three- 
legged  bench  leaned  against  the  grand  old  tree, 
cabbage  stalks,  a  broken  coffee  pot,  with  pools  of 
dirty  water  standing  here  and  there ;  but  here  was 
shade,  fresh  air,  and  the  river.  She  went  back  in  the 
house  and  brought  out  the  two  older  boys,  and  gave 
a  sigh  of  relief  at  seeing  some  stalks  of  sugar 
cane,  lying  on  the  old  bench.  She  gave  these  to 
the  boys  and  left  them  content,  while  she  went  back, 
lifted  the  heavy  baby,  and  brought  him  out  also,  de- 
positing him  in  his  blanket  on  the  ground. 

Quiet  now  reigned,  and  Elise  took  advantage  of 
it  to  ask  the  older  boy  : 

"Where  is  your  mother?" 

"I  dunno,"  said  the  boy  and  his  under  lip  began  to 
curl  down  ominously. 

She  left  him,  and  began  to  search  for  provisions, 
and  was  delighted  to  find  a  pail  of  milk  on  the  door 
steps,  which  had  been  left  in  the  early  morning  and 
had  not  yet  soured.  Gathering  up  some  bits  of  wood 
from  the  ground,  she  managed  to  build  a  little  fire, 
on  which  she  heated  the  milk,  and  satisfied  the  little 


1 88  ELISE. 

ones,  who  appeared  ravenous,  and  then  drank  some 
herself.  She  knew  not  what  next  to  do,  but  went 
to  the  road,  and  looked  up  and  down  to  see  if  there 
were  any  one  in  sight.  The  children  clung  to  her 
skirts,  crying  as  if  they  feared  to  lose  their  new  pro- 
tector. Elise  went  back  and  gave  herself  up  to 
amuse  the  children.  She  built  houses  in  the  sand, 
laughed  and  sang  to  them  until  all  were  as  merry 
as  possible.  About  an  hour  afterward,  in  the 
midst  of  their  merriment,  they  were  startled  sudden- 
ly by  an  exclamation : 

"July  !  For  the  land's  sake  !  what  young' uns  this?" 
Elise  looked  up,  and  there  stood  a  most  remarkable 
looking  girl.  Very  tall  and  thin,  with  the  brightest 
of  red  hair,  eyebrows,  and  eyelashes.  Her  hair  was 
banged  across  her  forehead,  and  her  face  and  hands 
quite  brown  with  freckless.  Her  twinkling,  light 
blue  eyes  seemed  looking  everywhere  at  once.  She 
was  neatly  dressed,  but  with  a  light  pink  calico, 
which  reached  half-way  between  her  knees  and 
ankles,  while  the  sleeves  were  also  outgrown,  and 
failed  to  cover  the  long  slender  arms  and  wrists 
which  were  also  covered  with  freckles.  The  two 
girls  stood  and  gazed  at  each  other  in  silence.  Not 
so  with  the  children,  who  recognized  an  old  acquain- 
tance, and  clung  to  Elise,  screaming  desperately. 
The  new  comer  caught  up  a  switch,  and  said  : 
"Now,  you,  John  Thomas,  stop  that  noise,  and 
behave  yourself,  or  you  know  what  you'll  get." 


ELISE.  189 

John  Thomas  only  shrieked  the  louder,  and  the 
3iew  comer  caught  him  by  the  arm,  and  brought 
down  the  switch  with  all  her  force,  leaving  a  red 
■mark  on  his  little  bare  legs.  Elise  screamed  almost 
as  loud  as  the  boy,  sprang  at  the  girl  and  tried  to 
get  the  switch  away,  but  the  girl  laughed  scornfully, 
and  held  the  switch  just  out  of  her  reach,  dancing 
backward  as  if  to  invite  her  to  a  chase,  and  then 
laughing   heartily  at    her  vain  efforts    to  reach    it. 

John  Thomas,  considering  that  "  discretion  is  the 
better  part  of  valor,"  shamelessly  abandoned  Elise, 
and  retreated  to  the  house,  where  he  stood  peeping 
out  the  door,  to  watch  the  course  of  events,  while 
the  little  three-year-old  stopped  crying,  and  began 
to  suck  his  fingers. 

"You  may  just  as  well  make  up  your  mind,  that 
I'm  boss  of  this  job,"  said  the  new-comer  decidedly, 
^'because  I'm  going  to  be.  How  came  }'OU  here, 
anyway?" 

"I  heard  the  children  crying,  and  I  came  in  to 
take  care  of  them,"  said  Elise  meekly. 

"Well,  that's  my  work  ;  these  are  widow  Jenkyns' 
young'uns,  and  she  goes  off  to  camp  to  sell  things  to 
the  soldiers,  and  hires  me  to  mind  the  house  while 
she's  gone.  I  don't  mean  to  hurry  any.  What's 
the  use?  crying  does  'em  good,  and  they  knows  by 
this  time  that  they've  got  to  behave  themselves, 
when  I'm  around,  and  do  just  what  I  tell  'em,  or  I'll 
.know  the  reason  wh}'." 


190  ELISE, 

"Oh  I  but  please  don't  whip  them,"  pleaded  EHse 
entreatingly.  "I'll  tell  you  what,  if  you'll  promise 
not  to  whip  them,  I'll  tell  3'ou  a  lovely  story." 

The  other  gazed  at  her  incredulously.  "I  don't 
believe  you  know  any,"  said  she. 

"Indeed  I  do,"  said  Elise,  "lots  of  'em,  and  real' 
true  ones,  too." 

"All  right,"  said  the  othei,  "I  like  good  stories,  all 
murders  and  robbers,  you  know, — but  what's  your 
name,  and  where  did  you  come  from  anyhow?" 

"My  name  is  Elise,  and  I  am  going  north,  to- 
my  papa." 

"All  alone,  and  walking?"  said  the  other  with 
surprise. 

"Yes;"  said  Elise,  "but  not  alone,  my  angel 
guardian  goes  with  me,  and  shows  me  the  way. 
What  is  your  name?"  she  asked  timidly. 

"Lilybel  Jones,"  said  the  other  decidedly  ;  "3'ou're 
a  queer  one,  but  I  like  you.  Now  I'll  tell  you  what. 
If  you'll  tell  me  a  story  and  keep  the  young'uns  for 
me,  I'll  cook  us  a  first-class  supper  for  me  and  you 
and  Miss  Jenkyns,  when  she  comes  home.  Is't  a 
bargain,    hey?" 

"I  don't  think  there's  anything  to  cook,"  said 
Elise  doubtfully;  she  had  begun  to  feel  that  some- 
thing to  eat  was  a  thing  not  to  be  despised. 

"You  bet,"  said  Miss  Jones,  with  a  knowing  wink. 

So  the  program  was  carried  out,  baby  was  de- 
posited  in  the  cradle,  and   now  that  Miss  Jones  had- 


ELISE.  IQT 

arrived,  the  other  two  needed  no  persuasion  to 
play  quietly  by  themselves.  She  seated  herself 
on  the  ground,  and  clasped  her  arms  around 
her  knees,  with  an  air  of  expectation,  while  Elise, 
taking  an  old  box,  tolerably  clean,  seated  herself  on 
it,  and  began  : 

"Once  upon  a  time,  a  long,  long  time  ago,  there 
was  a  little  girl  who  lived  in  France,  and  her  name 
was  Germaine  Cousin." 

"What  a  queer  name,"  said  Lilybel.  "It  isn't  half 
as  nice  as  mine  is." 

"Yours  is  a  lovely  name,"  said  Elise  admiringly, 
"but  then  you  know  you  can't  choose  your  own 
name." 

"Oh!  yes  you  can,"  said  Lilybel  composedly. 
"I  learned  a  piece  at  school,  and  the  name  of  it  was,, 
'A  Good  Name,'  and  it  began  : 

'Children  choose  it 

Don't  refuse  it, 

It's  a  precious  diadem  !' 

and,  besides,  Marm  changes  mine,  most  every  time 
she  reads  a  new  novel." 

"But  you  must  keep  the  name  you  got  in  baptism," 
said  Elise  in  astonishment. 

"Never  got  none,"  said  Miss  Jones.  "Never  got 
baptized,  and  never  mean  to  neither,  folks  who  get 
religion,  are,  generally  speaking,  cranks." 

"Never  been  baptized  !"    said  Elise  with  horror. 


192  ELISE. 

"Then  that's  why  you  are  so  cruel  and  wicked  to  the 
little  ones." 

"You  dry  up,"  was  the  response,  "or  you'll  find 
out  whether  I'm  cruel  or  not." 

Elise  hastened  to  continue  her  story. 

"Well,  one  day,  while  she  was  still  a  little  girl,  her 
dear  mother  died  and  went  to  heaven,  and  there  she 
prayed  for  her  little  daughter,  so  the  Lord  sent  her 
great  troubles  and  crosses  of  every  kind,  that  she 
might  become  a  saint.'' 

"  Hope  there  don't  anyone  pray  for  me,"  said 
Miss  Jones. 

"Her  father  married  a  cruel,  wicked  woman,  who 
treated  her  dreadfully.  She  used  to  say  very  cross, 
unkind  words  to  her,  and  beat  her,  and  make  her 
work  hard  in  the  fields,  and  she  wouldn't  give  her 
any  clothes  to  wear,  or  anything  to  eat,  so  poor 
Germaine  was  always  very  cold  and  hungry." 

"Bet  your  life,  I'd  hev  give  her  as  good  as  she 
sent,  and  plague  the  life  out  of  her,"  said  Miss 
Jones,  "and  to  do  her  justice,  there  is  no  doubt, 
but  what  she  would   have  been  as  good  as  her  word. 

"Germaine  did  not,"  said  Elise.  "She  never 
made  one  word  of  complaint,  and  never  answered 
back,  but  was  always  bright,  sweet,  and  pleasant. 
When  she  went  ovit  in  the  fields  to  mind  her  flocks, 
she  would  gather  the  little  children  around  her,  and 
tell  them  about  heaven.  When  she  was  teaching 
the  little  ones,  or  talking  to  them  about  heaven  and 


ELISE. 


193 


the  angels  and  saints,  her  face  would  shine,  and 
glow,  as  though  from  a  light  within  her." 

"Like  yours,  I  reckon,"  said  Lilybel. 

"Oh,  no,  ever  so  much  better,"  said  Elise. 

"Yours  is  nice  enough  for  me,  anyhow,"  said  Miss 
Jones. 

"Well;  there  came  a  da}'  when  Germaine  went 
to  her  work  in  the  fields,  feeling  very  cold,  and  sick, 
and  faint.  And  when  the  day  was  over,  she  did  not 
come  home,  for  our  Lord  had  compassion  on  her, 
and  took  her  to  heaven.  Her  step-mother  never 
went  to  look  for  her ;  but  that  night,  when  some  men 
were  going  home  from  their  work,  they  saw  a  light 
streaming  from  a  barn,  and  they  looked  in  to  see 
what  was  the  matter,  and  there  on  a  heap  of  straw 
they  saw  the  dead  body  of  poor  Germaine,  and  the 
light  was  shining  from  that,  and  from  the  Holy 
Angels  who  were  watching  it. 

"An'  yer  calls  that  a  true  story?"  said  Miss  Jones 
scornfully. 

"Yes;  all  true,"  said  Elise. 

"An' the  men  seed  the  angels?" 

"Yes,"  said  Elise. 

"Did  you  ever  see  an  angel?"  queried  Miss  Jones- 
incredulously. 

"Yes,  often,"  said  Elise,  "in  my  dreams." 

"What  are  they  like?"  said  Lilybel. 

"One  was  like  a  beautiful  child,  with  his  hands 
crossed  on  his  breast,  always  looking  up  to  heaven. 


194  ELISE, 

His  dress  was  made  so  that  you  could  see  each  thread 
separately,  and  they  shone  and  glittered  like  frosted 
silver,  and  a  bright  light  shone  all  around  him." 

"I  wish  I  could  see  one  ;  how  do  yer  manage  it?' 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Elise,  doubtfully,  "I'm  afraid 
you  have  not  got  one,  if  you  are  not  baptized." 

"Would  I  have  one,  if  I  were  baptized?"  said 
Lilybel. 

"Yes;  I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Elise. 

"Then,  by  jenks  I  I  will  try  it,  I'll  git  religion, 
and  be  dipped  next  time  there's  a  camp  meetin'." 

"Germaine  was  not  baptized  that  way,"  said  Elise, 
"she  was  a  Catholic." 

"There  ain't  many  of  them  around  here,"  said 
Lil3^bel ;  "a  priest  comes  sometimes  to  Mrs.  O'Leary's, 
I  believe,  but  he  never  speaks  to  anyone  but  Catho- 
lics, don't  'spose  he'd  have  anything  to  say  to  me,  ef 
I  as't  him." 

"Oh,  yes,  he  would,"  said  Elise,  "try  it,  and  see." 

"Well,  I'll  see  Miss  O'Leary,  and  see  what  she 
says,"  said  Lilybel  doubtfully;  "she  don't  think 
much  of  me  though,  but  I'll  ask  her  sure;  now  give 
me  the  baby,  he's  off  till  his  mother  comes  home, 
and  you  feed  the  other  two,  and  put  them  to  bed, 
while  I  get  supper." 

So  saying,  she  took  the  baby  into  the  house,  and 
soon  came  out  with  some  thick  slices  of  bread,  spread 
with  molasses,  and  a  tin  cup  of  milk  for  the  two 
boys. 


ELISE.  195 

Elise  wondered  where  it  came  from ;  she  said 
^nothing,  but  proceeded  to  distribute  it  to  the  two 
•children,  who  enjoyed  it  immensely. 

In  about  half  an  hour,  Lilybel  summoned  her, 
and  the  two  boys,  much  more  submissive  under  the 
eyes  of  Miss  Jones,  allowed  her  to  put  them  back 
into  the  same  untidy  bed  from  which  they  had  rolled 
in  the  morning,  together  with  the  sleeping  baby. 
John  Thomas  showed  a  slight  inclination  to  rebel, 
but  at  a  glance,  and  motion  from  Miss  Jones,  he 
promptly  shut  his  eyes,  and  went  off  to  sleep. 

Elise  gazed  around  her  with  pleased  surprise, 
everything  had  been  made  tolerably  clean  and 
orderly  by  the  quick  decisive  movements  of  Lilybel, 
and  on  the  table  'smoked  a  fried  chicken,  pancakes, 
and  coffee. 

"Where  are  you  going  to  sta\'  to-night?"  asked 
Lilybel,  as  they  sat  down. 

"Oh  !  I  can't  stay,"  said  Elise,  "I  must  keep  on 
till  I  find  papa." 

"Good  grief!"  said  Miss  Jones,  "but  that's  non- 
sense you  know,  you  can't  go  on ;  don't  you  know 
they  are  fighting  perfectly  dreadful,  and  they'll  think 
nothing  of  gobbling  3'ou  right  up,  and  killing  you, 
and  carrying  you  off.  I  'spect  you'd  better  sleep 
here,  but  with  only  one  bed,  for  you.  Widow  Jenkyns 
and  her  three  youngsters,  there'll  be  precious  little 
room,  and  what  there  is  will  be  awfully  crooked,  I 
reckon.     Now  we'll  leave  these  things  on  the  table, 


196  ELISE. 

for  Miss  Jenkyns,  who  will  be  here  in  a  little  while^ 
You  go  on  out  on  the  steps,  and  Til  be  there 
presently.  We'll  watch  for  soldiers  :  it's  fun  I  tell 
yer." 

Elise  obeyed,  and  went  out :  but  when  Miss  Jones 
appeared  a  few  minutes  later,  there  was  no  one  to 
be  seen. 

"July!  she's  run  ;"  said  that  young  woman  after 
blinking  her  eyes  down  the  road  in  vain.  "Well,  I 
told  her,  and  if  anything  happens  I'm  not  to  blame^ 
I  wonder  if  she  wasn't  a  spook  anyhow?" 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


A    LOST    SHEEP. 


Swiftly  the  little  figure  ran  down  the  road., 
until  out  of  sight  of  the  cottage,  and  of  fear  of  Miss 
Jones'  pursuit.  It  was  now  growing  quite  dark. 
The  grey  clouds  were  moving  rapidly  overhead,  as 
if  a  storm  were  gathering  ;  only  a  little  strip  of  gold 
in  the  west  showed  that  the  sun  was  setting  behind 
the  clouds. 

The  country  was  very  still  and  lonely ;  she  met 
no  one,  and  for  the  first  time  her  heart  sank  with 
fear.  The  road  seemed  to  grow  wilder,  and  was. 
evidently  not  much  used.  Now  it  entered  the 
forest,  and  it  rapidly  grew  darker.  She  looked  up 
at  the  swiftly  moving  clouds  overhead,  and  was. 
comforted  to  see  the  moon  peeping  out  behind 
them.  Then  it  was  suddenly  obscured,  and  a  gust 
of  wind  moaned  through  the  trees,  and  tossed  their 
branches  about.  As  the  child  heard,  it,  she  folded 
her  hands  together,  and  prayed :; 


apS  ELISE. 

"  'Eternal  rest  grant  unto  them,  oh  Lord,  and 
■perpetual  light  of  glory  shine  upon  them.  May 
-they  rest  in  peace  I     May  they  rest  in  peace  !'" 

A  sudden  flash  of  lightning,  immediately  followed 
by  a  crash  of  thunder,  and  a  large  tree  fell  across 
the  road  behind  her,  but  the  little  quivering  figure  kept 
steadily  on.  Now  she  was  out  of  the  forest.  Thank 
God  for  that  I  and  the  storm  seemed  passing  over 
without  rain. 

It  was  growing  lighter,  and  as  she  lifted  her  eyes 
"beseechingly  to  heaven,  she  saw,  through  a  rift  in 
•the  dark  clouds,  the  moon,  stars  and  clear,  shining 
-sky  beyond.  "It  is  like  the  dear  Lord  in  the  Blessed 
"Sacrament,"  she  murmured,  "a  clear  shining,  in  a 
dark  world.  He  is  there,  the  angels  are  near,  why 
should  I  fear?  " 

The  road  before  her  was  separated  from  a  pasture 
"on  one  side,  and  a  hill  on  the  other,  by  a  rail  fence 
ivhich  had  been  thrown  down  in  many  places. 

Suddenly  she  started  !  what  was  that  dark  object 
-on  the  side  of  the  road  ?  It  looked  like  a  dead  horse. 
Oh  God  !  what  are  all  those  dark  forms  ahead,  lying 
on  the  hill,  the  other  side  of  the  ditch?  Without 
pausing,  guided  by  her  invisible  guardian,  she  crosses 
ihe  ditch,  her  foot  slips  ;  what  is  it  makes  the  grass 
■so  slippery  and  wet?  She  tries  to  save  herself  from 
falling  by  putting  out  her  hand  ;  With  what  is  her 
hand  wet?  It  is  blood!  blood  everywhere;  on  the 
ground,  on  the  rocks,  and  fences. 


ELISE.  199 

She  shuddered,  wiped  her  hand,  but  kept  steadily 
on  toward  a  clump  of  bushes,  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 
At  last  she  gains  them,  stumbling  and  falling  more 
than  once  over  those  still,  cold  forms,  and  kneels 
beside  the  body  of  a  lad  of  sixteen  or  seventeen 
years  of  age.  He  is  conscious  and  moaning  in  a 
,  faint,  weary  way.  He  is  lying  on  his  back,  with  his 
head  lower  than  his  body.  She  laid  her  hand  gently 
on  his ;  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  called  eagerly : 

"Water,  water.      Oh  !  give  me  some  water." 

It  was  for  this,  then,  that  she  has  come,  for  this 
that  she  has  been  separated  from  her  friends, 
toiled  through  the  long  wearisome  way,  and  borne 
so  many  disappointments,  for  this  one  soul,  only  a 
school  boy,  but  one  for  whom  Christ  died,  and  who 
needs  her  help. 

"Where  can  I  get  the  water?"  said  the  child,  her 
tears  falling  fast,  as  she  spoke. 

"  My  canteen  is  under  me,  but  you  can  pull  it  out," 
said  the  lad. 

Carefully  and  skilfully,  as  if  she  had  been  trained, 
she  drew  out  the  canteen,  gave  him  to  drink, 
and  then  tenderl}^  bathed  the  poor  face  and  head, 
already  growing  cold  in  death.  Then  she  unfasten- 
ed his  haversack  and  blanket,  and  managed  to  draw 
his  head  in  a  more  comfortable  position  on  them. 
At  his  direction,  she  found  a  little  flask  of  brandy  in 
the  haversack,  which  she  gave  him  from  time  to 
time  as  the  nigrht  went  on. 


200  ELISE. 

The  storm  had  now  passed  quite  over  and  the 
moon  shone  out  clearly.  EHse  kept  her  back  to 
those  dark  "forms  that  she  might  not  see  them, 
and  her  face  toward  the  bushes  and  that  of  the  poor 
lad. 

It  was  July,  but  it  was  cold,  very  cold.  The  katy- 
dids kept  up  their  noisy  discussions,  as  if  nothing- 
had  happened.  There  was  a  distant  mournful 
sound  of  a  whip-poor-will,  a  bat  circled  around  them 
in  a  weird  manner,  and  Elise  in  spite  of  the  greater 
horrors  of  the  night  around  her,  felt  afraid  of  it,  and 
found  herself  shrinking  away  as  it  swooped  near 
them  in  swift,  noiseless  circles. 

"Oh  dear!"  sighed  the  boy,  "how  nice  it  is  to 
have  you  here  ;   where  did  you  come  from?" 

"  My  name  is  Elise,"  she  replied,  "  and  my  guar- 
dian angel  led  me  to  you." 

He  looked  at  her  wonderingly. 

"  Are  there  really  such  things  as  angels?"  he 
said. 

"Did  you  not  know  it  before?"  said  the  child, 
in  surprise. 

"  I  have  heard  so,"  said  the  bo}',  "  but  I  did  not 
really  believe  in  it." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  who  you  are?  and  what  is  your 
name?"  asked  Elise,  timidly. 

"Oh,  I  am  Jim  Winters  I  You  wonder  why  I  am 
here,  I  suppose,  but  a  lot  of  us  fellows  in  a  military 
school  enlisted  for  three  months  ;  we  thought  it  would 


ELISE.  20I 

be  only  good  fun,  and  this  is  the  end  of  it  all,"  he 
groaned  wearily.  "Father  tried  to  stop  me,  but  I 
told  him  I'd  run  away  if  he  did,  and  so  he  let  me 
come." 

A  pause,  his  eyes  closed,  and  he  began  breathing 
heavily.  Elise  gave  him  some  more  brandy  ;  and 
he  began  again  : 

"I  suppose  I  was  thrown  down  in  some  way,  and 
then  a  charge  of  cavalry  ran  over  me.  Don't  feel  so 
bad.  I  don't  suffer  much  now.  All  the  lower  half 
of  me  is  dead." 

"Have  you  never  been  baptized?"  said  Elise. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "What's  the 
use  of  it?" 

Elise  gazed  at  him  with  astonishment. 

"Do  you  not  know  the  good  God,"  she  said. 
"Look  up  in  the  sky,  and  see  the  moon  and  stars. 
Nay,  nearer,  look  at  my  hand,  and  feel  it  as  it  bathes 
your  head.     Who  made  them?" 

"Oh  God  !  'The  first  cause,'  our  German  pro- 
fessor used  to  say.  Yes,  yes,  it  is  true  there  must 
be  a  God."  murmured  the  boy,  "  but  I  have  never 
given  the  matter  any  thought,  and  it  is  too  late  now. 
If  my  mother  had  lived  :  she  was  a  Catholic,  and 
died  when  I  was  born.  My  father  didn't  care  for 
religion,  neither  did  I  much,  there  was  a  time  : — 
Well,  it — is — too — late — now." 

"Oh,  no !"  said  Elise,  "God  is  our  Father,  He 
would  not  leave   His  children   without  some  knowl- 


202  ELISE. 

edge  of  the  truth,  and  your  mother's  Church,  the  Ca- 
thoHc  Church,  is  the  only  one  which  ever  professes 
to  hold  infallible  truth.  God  has  sent  me  to  tell  you,. 
He  wishes  you  to  die  a  Catholic  like  your  mother." 

"But  it  is  too  late,  you  cannot  get  a  minister,  and 
I  am  not  good,"  said  the  poor  lad,  and  the  tears  of 
despair,  which  his  pain  had  not  yet  forced  from 
him,  ran  down  his  troubled  face. 

"God  is  so  good,"  said  Elise  softly,  "that*  He  lets 
even  a  little  girl  like  me,  bring  you  into  the  'One 
True  Fold'  when  there  is  no  one  better  to  do  it. 
Will  you  not  believe  me  ?"  she  added  coaxingly. 

"I  believe  God  sent  you  to  me  to-night,"  he  said, 
"in  answer  to  my  dead  mother's  pra3^ers,  and  that 
every  word  you  say  to  me  is  truth." 

"You  know,"  said  the  child,  "how  long,  long  ago, 
God  sent  His  Son  to  redeem  us  from  sin.  How  He 
was  born  of  a  sinless  mother,  who  then  became  also 
our  mother,  and  then  suffered  and  died  on  the  cross 
to  save  us  from  death?    You  know  of  all  this?" 

"Oh,  yes;  I  have  heard  it  often,  but  somehow  I 
never  took  it  in  before." 

"And  you  know  He  left  here,  for  His  children, 
a  Church  which  He  promised  should  last  till  the  end 
of  time,  and  told  us,  Himself,  that  there  should  be 
but  'One  Fold,  One  Church,  and  One  Shepherd  ;' 
will  you  not  enter  that  Fold  and  be  safe?"  said  Elise 
with  all  the  fervor  and  earnestness  of  her  heart  in 
her  voice. 


ELISE.  203 

"Oh,  yes  ;  oh  yes  I  with  all  my  heart,  if  I  could,'* 
said  the  lad. 

"Do  you  believe  all  I  have  told  you?"  said  she. 

"I  know,  I  feel  it  is  true,"  said  he  faintly. 

Then  repeat  after  me  :  slowly  and  fervently,  they 
made  together  the  acts  of  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity. 

Then  Elise  emptying  the  last  drops  of  water  from 
his  canteen  on  his  head,  as  she  knelt  beside  him^ 
repeated  the  baptismal  formula,  saying : 

"  'James,  if  thou  art  not  already  baptized,  I  bap- 
tize thee  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son„ 
and  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  Amen  !'  Now  be  very  sorry 
for  your  sins,  with  which  you  have  offended  the  dear 
Lord,  and  make  an  act  of  contrition."  Slowly,  falter- 
ingly  but  fervently  he  repeated  after  her,  she  holding; 
his  clasped  hands,  "never — never  more  to  offend 
Thee." 

"I  see,  I  see  the  angel !"  said  the  poor  lad,  his. 
face  brightening.  "Jesus,  Mother,"  a  slight  struggle, 
and  he  was  gone,  while  our  poor  child,  now  quite  ex- 
hausted, fell  fainting  across  his  dead  body. 

Great  was  the  wonder  of  the  ambulance  surgeon, 
when,  a  few  hours  later,  he  picked  up  the  uncon- 
scious child.  He  shook  his  head  gravely  as  he  ex- 
amined her,  and  then  had  her  laid  in  the  ambulance. 
She  did  not  fully  recover  her  consciousness,  until  a 
week  later,  after  a  long,  weary  journey,  she  came  to 
herself  in  the  hospital  at  Washington,  under  the  care; 
of  the  Sisters  of  Charity. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


THE     HOSPITAL. 


The  sun  was  doing  his  best  to  flood  the  children's 
ward  of  the  Sisters'  hospital  in  Washington.  It  was 
the  brightest  and  most  sunshiny  room  of  the  whole 
district  The  long  eastern  side  of  the  ward  was  made 
almost  entirely  of  glass,  but  now,  it  was  too  warm  to 
allow  the  sun  free  entrance,  and  the  ward  was  shaded 
by  large  awnings  on  that  side,  but  the  open  windows 
had  converted  the  ward  into  a  balcony  for  the  day 
and  the  children  who  were  up,  were  making  the 
most  of  it.  Opposite  this  open  window  were  long 
J-Qws  of  little  beds,  with  spotless  covers.  Some, 
indeed  the  greater  part,  were  filled,  with  that  saddest 
of  all  sights,  sick  and  suffering  little  children.  They 
■did  not  look  sad.  Most  of  them  had  happy,  expect- 
ant faces.  They  were  dressed  in  bright  colored 
flannel  bed  sacks  and  had  their  playthings  within 
■■-easy  reach.  But  pale,  attenuated  little  faces,  and 
that  dreadful  weight  hanging  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
ttold  the  sad  talc  of  the  sufferina:  children  of  Eve. 


ELISE.  205 

In  one  corner  our  little  girl  was  lying.  Alas  !  too 
-easily  was  it  seen  that  the  night's  exposure  on  the 
battle  field  had  proved  too  much  for  her  frail  body. 
She  was  bolstered  up  in  a  half  sitting  posture  with 
pillows.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed  with  fever,  and 
occasionally  a  cough  shook  her  from  head  to  foot. 
It  was  by  a  miracle  that  she  had  recovered  from  the 
severe  attack  of  pneumonia  which  followed  that 
dreadful  night,  especially  as  it  was  necessary  to 
move  her  at  the  height  of  her  fever,  but  she  would 
not  die;  in  all  delirium  there  was  but  one  cry:  "To 
go  to  papa.  I  must  go  to  papa,"  and  they  could  only 
quiet  her  by  the  promise  that  she  should  go,  was 
going,  though  it  has  generally  thought  that  her 
father  had  been  killed  in  the  battle. 

Now,  she  is  looking  very  happ}'  though  she  has 
come  to  a  realizing  sense  of  her  position.  She 
knows  that  she  is  too  weak  now  to  go  farther  alone, 
but  watches  and  prays  intently  for  the  chance  to 
keep  on  still  for  that  unknown  place,  New  York. 

The  ward  at  this  early  morning  hour,  is  a  scene 
of  cheerful  confusion.  The  day  nurses  have  just 
come  on  duty,  and  the  black-capped  Sisters  moved 
everywhere,  striving  to  produce  'order  out  of  chaos,' 
before  the  doctors'  rounds. 

The  Sister  in  charge  is  at  the  medicine  closet, 
at  the  end  of  the  ward,  and  she  tinkles  a  little  bell  to 
denote  that  she  w'ill  give  the  after-breakfast  medi- 
■cines.     At  this  signal  all  the  children,  who  are  up, 


206  ELISE. 

make  a  general  rush  for  her.  The  crutches  and 
splints  rattle  up  the  tiled  floor,  and  one  poor  little 
fellow,  not  the  last  by  any  means,  swings  himself 
along,  using  his  hands  as  crutches,  and  swinging 
himself  between  them. 

Sister  Genevieve  had  had  the  care  of  this  ward 
for  many  years.  One  glance  at  her  sweet  face,  now 
showing  the  marks  of  old  age,  would  convince  you 
that  the  community  had  chosen  wisely  and  well  in 
giving  her  the  care  of  the  little  ones.  She  was  one 
of  those  few  women  who  are  gifted  with  great  execu- 
tive ability.  No  matter  how  heavy  or  trying  the 
work  might  be,  it  was  always  so  arranged  that  it  went 
on  as  smoothly  as  if  run  by  machinery,  but  with  a 
certain  snap  and  energy  which  carried  all  before  it. 
Her  juniors  loved  her  dearly,  but  knew  that  nothing 
less  than  the  best,  done  exactly  to  the  minute,  would 
answer  when  working  under  her  surveillance.  Her 
superiors  recognizing  this,  kept  her  training  new 
subjects,  so  that  she  used  to  say  her  ward  was  the 
novitiate  of  the  hospital. 

Buttons,  the  little  fellow  who  has  just  swung  him- 
self up  for  his  medicine,  was  so  named  by  a  young 
doctor  on  account  of  his  suit  of  clothes  which  was 
covered  with  bright  gilt  buttons,  when  he  wasbrought 
to  the  hospital  by  his  mother.  He  was  a  bright, 
chubby  little  fellow,  with  round  red  cheeks,  and  brown 
eyes  and  hair.  The  hair  curls  so  tightly  around  his 
head  as  to  be  a  subject  of  great  grief  to  him,  and  an 


ELISE.  207" 

occasion  of  war,  when  the  young  girl,  employed  by 
the  Sisters  for  that  purpose,  endeavors  to  comb  it. 
He  comes  to  a  stop  at  Sister  Genevieve's  side  and 
looks  expectantly  up  to  her  face. 

"Here,  Buttons,"  said  the  Sister,  handing  him  the 
glass  with  an  air  of  conferring  the  greatest  favor. 

Buttons  eyed  the  glass  suspiciously,  and  then 
glanced  earnestly  and  inquiringly  into  the  Sister's 
face,  saying  : 

"Is  dat  good  med,  my  Sister?  is  dat  good  med?" 

Now  the  medicine  in  question  was  cod  liver  oil, 
into  which  the  Sister  had  dropped  some  syrup  of 
iron,  about  as  vile  a  concoction  as  one  could  be 
asked  to  swallow,  but  knowing  too  well  by  sad 
experience  that  there  was  no  power  in  the  CapitoF 
sufficient  to  persuade,  or  force  Buttons  to  swallow 
it  if  she  said  "No,"  she  said  :  "Very  good,  Buttons," 
adding  a  mental  reservation  that  it  was  good  in  her 
sense  of  the  word. 

Buttons  tooks  the  glass  without  further  demur, 
and  with  confidence  swallowed  the  medicine.  He 
then  looked  at  the  glass  with  some  surprise,  and 
handed  it  back  to  the  Sister  with  an  inquiring  look, 
as  much  as  to  say  : 

"You  are  sure  you  have  not  made  a  mistake  about 
that." 

Sister  Genevieve  gives  an  affirmative  little  nod  as 
if  to  sa}' : 

"Did  you  ever  see  anything  equal  to  that?"  and  at 


:2o8  ELISE. 

the  same  time  proffers  a  bit  of  candy,  of  which  a 
store  is  always  kept  in  her  medicine  closet.  But- 
tons is  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  think  of  doubting 
her  word,  and  so  decided  his  senses  must  have  de- 
ceived him,  and  that  his  cod  liver  oil  and  iron  were 
reall}'  nectar  and  ambrosia,  and  so  swings  off  quite 
happy.  Soon  his  sweet,  clear  voice  rings  through 
the  ward  as  he  rocks  himself  back  and  forth  in  a 
little  rocking  boat  and  sings  an  accompaniment  of  a 
popular  song. 

Again  the  bell  tinkles,  and  every  child,  wdio  is  up, 
scrambles  to  his  little  chair  at  the  foot  of  his  bed. 
As  the  three  doctors  enter  the  ward  for  morning 
rounds,  silence  and  order  reign  supreme.  This  was 
a  well  known  law,  and  like  that  of  the  Medes  and 
Persians,  "It  altereth  not." 

Let  us  follow  the  doctors  in  their  rounds,  and 
make  acquaintance  with  the  dear  children. 

Lina  is  the  first  visited.  The  poor  little  one  is 
lying  back  in  a  baby's  perambulator.  She  has 
straight  black  hair  which  is  kept  back  smoothly 
from  her  white,  thin  face  by  a  round  comb,  black 
eyes  which  twinkle  like  a  canary's,  delicate,  refined 
features  with  a  clear  white  skin,  which  is  too  often 
flushed  with  fever.  She  is  dead — that  is  to  sa}^ 
completely  paral3'zed — below  the  waist,  and  other- 
wise deformed  in  a  manner  terrible  to  see.  Al- 
though she  is  nine  years  old,  she  has  to  be  dressed 
like  a  baby  each  day  and  then  laid  in  her  perambul- 


ELISE.  209 

ator,  to  be  wheeled  about  wherever  her  fancy  takes 
her.  She  was  long  ago  decided  as  incurable,  but 
Sister  Genevieve  has  begged  so  hard  to  keep  her, 
that  her  sentence  of  banishment,  pronounced  by  the 
doctors,  has  been  repealed,  and  however  deformed  her 
poor  body  may  be,  her  heart  and  brain  are  sound 
and  true.  She  is  a  good  instance  of  the  law  of 
compensation,  for  you  can  nowhere  find  a  happier 
child,  never  was  she  unhappy.  There  were  no  fret- 
ful or  irritable  days  for  her,  she  was  deeply 
attached  to  the  little  novice  who  has  the  care  of  her, 
only  on  one  point  they  disagreed.  Lina  had  a  great 
liking  for  strong  tea,  as  nearh*  all  invalids  have.  The 
novice  in  question  had  a  prejudice  against  it,  think- 
ing milk  better  for  her. 

"Lina,"  she  remonstrates,  as  the  child  begged  for 
more,  "if  3'ou  drink  so  much  tea,  you  will  be  an  old 
maid." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  as  Lina  turned  this 
new  idea  over  in  her  brain.  Lina,  with  her  other 
misfortunes  stammered,  and  she  broke  out  with  : 

"Wha — wh — what  is  an  old  maid,  Sister?  Are  you 
an  old  maid  ?" 

"Yes,  Lina,"  said  the  )'oung  novice  in  a  sad  and 
solemn  tone. 

Another  moment  of  reflection  and  then  in  a  tone- 
of  surprise. 

"We — we — well  then,  I — I — I'd  jist  lief  be  an  old 
maid   as  not." 


2IO  ELISE. 

The  sweet  flattery  of  childhood  won,  and  Lina  got 
her  tea.  Dear  little  Lina,  not  long  were  you  kept  in 
the  sad  prison  of  your  suffering, body  and  by  that 
same  most  just  and  merciful  law  of  compensation 
you  surely  gained  an  additional  degree  of  happiness 
in  Heaven,  which  far  more  than  repays  your  few 
years  of  suffering  here. 

The  doctors  have  not  much  to  say  to  Lina,  she  is 
incurable  and  consequently  an  uninteresting  case. 

They  passed  on  to  that  corner  bed  which  is 
screened  from  the  rest  of  the  ward,  lest  chance 
visitors  should  find  its  occupant  too  distressing  a 
sight.  He  is  a  tall,  thin,  awkward  lad  of  about 
twelve  years  of  age,  with  chronic  meningitis  which 
causes  terrible  swellings  and  discharges  from  his 
ears.  He  is  in  bed  most  of  the  time  from  weakness 
and  pain,  but  occasionally  comes  out  from  his  seclu- 
sion to  join  the  noisy  crowd.  Especially  is  he  given 
to  nocturnal  rambles  and  chats  with  the  night  nurse, 
who  was  instructed  to  let  him  have  his  way,  for 
Stephen  likes  solitude.  He  was  born  and  brought 
up  in  the  heart  of  the  Virginia  Mountains.  It  is 
hard  to  believe  that  even  in  this  naughty  world  of 
ours  there  can  be  beings  so  hard  and  selfish  as 
Stephen's  relatives.  He  was  brought  to  the  Sisters 
by  the  police,  and  this  was  his  story  : 

His  uncle,  weary  of  the  care  of  a  chronic  invalid, 
thought  the  easiest  way  of  disposing  of  an  unwel- 
come burden,  was  to  abandon  him   in  the  streets  of 


ELISE.  211 

the  city.  It  was  sad  to  see  the  lad's  homesickness 
at  first.  He  could  not  be  reconciled  to  exchanging 
his  beloved  woods  for  a  city  hospital.  Who  could 
blame  him?  Day  and  night  he  moaned  and  wept, 
and  as  he  was  the  saddest  of  all ;  he  became,  in 
consequence,  Sister  Genevieve's  special  charge.  All 
she  could  do  to  please  and  comfort  him,  was  of  no 
avail  however : 

"To  go  home  !  lo  go  home  !  to  go  home,"  was  his 
ojie  sad  cry. 

Gradually  this  wore  awa\'  and  Sister  Genevieve 
felt  all  her  pains  and  troubles  were  well  repaid  when 
he  said  to  her  one  day,  shj-ly : 

"Sister,  I  like  to  be  here-" 

After  this,  all  went  well.  He  had  aroused  the 
sympathy  of  all,  and  the  little  space  behind  the 
screen  around  his  bed  was  filled  with  colored  cards 
and  other  little  gifts  from  the  doctors  and  other 
friends. 

Poor  Stephen  ;  he  did  not  live  very  long.  Happy 
Stephen  !  for  he  received  the  grace  of  baptism  which 
he  would  not  have  had  in  his  mountain  home.  An- 
other proof  that  the  cross  means  "addition  not  sub- 
traction." 

The  bed  next  Stephen  is  occupied  by  little  Ned. 
He  has  chronic  erysipelas  and  his  face  just  now  is 
so  swollen  and  inflamed  that  his  eyes  were  closed 
tight,  so  that  he  was  temporarily  blind.  Imagine 
->the  situtation  :   a  pauper,  blind,  and  in  addition  to 


2  12  ELISE. 

this,  the  burning,  itching,  intolerable  sensation  con- 
nected with  the  inflammation  of  the  skin.  What 
would  we  be  doing,  friends,  under  such  circum- 
stances? 

This  is  what  Kttle  Ned  was  doing.  Sitting  up  in 
his  crib,  he  rocks  himself  back  and  forth  and  sings 
in  an  exquisitely  clear  voice  that  fills  the  ward  : 

"Wait  till  the  chiuds  roll  l)y,  love, 
Wait  till  the  clouds  roll  by." 

He  is  touched  by  a  scandalized  neighbor,  and  his 
bUnd  eyes  reminded  that  it  is  "rounds,"  when  he  re- 
lapses into  silence. 

[n  the  next  bed  is  Fritzie,  the  Dutchman,  only 
three  years  old.  He  came  into  the  world  badly  de- 
formed, and  there  is  no  hope  of  cure,  or  even  im- 
provement. He  has  a  good  mother,  who  comes 
frequently  to  the  hospital  to  see  him.  She  has  not 
the  heart  to  take  him  away,  but  leaves  him,  hoping 
against  hope  ;  while  the  doctors  let  him  remain,  a 
sort  of  curiosity.  Perhaps,  too,  they  also  hope  that 
someone  will  one  day  make  a  grand  discovery  and 
cure  Fritzie.  He  has  a  great,  pale  full-moon  face. 
His  vocabulary  consists  of  one  word:  "Top" — stop 
— This  has  many  meanings  and  tones,  as  he  addresses 
himself  to  doctor,  nurse  or  child  ;  friend  or  enemy. 
He  has  also  a  very  pugnacious  temper,  and  the 
young  doctors,  when  making  their  rounds,  can  never 
resist  the  temptation  to  stir  it  up  by  teasing  him.. 


ELISE.  213 

Can  any  one  tell  us,  wh}'  the  sterner  sex  carr\-  the 
boy's  love  of  teasing  to  the  grave? 

This  morning  Fritzie  is  seated  quietl}-  in  his  little 
chair,  at  the  foot  of  his  bed,  clasping  tightly  a 
beloved  toy,  over  which  he  beams  benevolently  like 
a  small  Pickwick. 

"Here  give  that  to  me,  Fritz,"  says  a  doctor,  com- 
mandinglv. 

A  glance  of  contempt  and  detiance,  and  a  closer 
hugging  of  the  toy  is  the  only  response.  Then  a 
snatch  at  it  from  the  doctor,  just  missing  it,  which 
Fritz  meets  by  calling  out  "Top  !"  in  a  low.  but  very 
prolonged  tone,  with  just  a  shadow  of  a  scream  in 
it,  at  the  same  time  glancing  at  the  Sister,  to  see  if 
she  was  observing  this  breach  of  rules :  but  the' 
doctor  perseveres,  and  the  "Top"  soon  rises  to 
screams,  and  roars,  so  Fritzie  must  be  taken  from 
the  ward  before  the  rounds  can  proceed,  leaving  the 
Sister  much  more  inclined  to  administer  justice  to 
the  older  boy  than  to  the  younger. 

Then  comes  our  Elise,  and  the  doctor  bends  over 
the  child,  listens  to  her  lungs  and  looks  very  sober. . 

"How  is  Elise  this  morning?"  he  asks  cheerfully. 

"Better,  doctor,  almost  well,"  she  replies,  looking 
at  him  entreatingly.  - 

"Wanting  to  start  for  New.  York  on  foot,  eh?" 

A  decisive  nod  shows  how  the  heart  is  still  yearn- 
ing for  her  father,  and  how  gladly  would  she  es- 
cape to  go  on  as  before,  were  she  able. 


214  EFJSE. 

"How  would  it  do  to  write  the  father  to  come 
here?"  .said  the  doctor. 

"Oh,  will  you?  Can  he  come?  Is  it  far?"  said  the 
child,  eagerly. 

"We  will  tr)-,  at  au}-  rate,"  said  the  doctor  smil- 
ingly.     "What  is  his  address?'" 

"New  York,"  said  she  promptly. 

"But  the  street  and  number." 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  with  a  crestfallen  face. 

The  doctor  gave  a  low  whistle,  and  glanced  at  the 
Sister. 

"'Do  \-ou  think  the  end  is  near?"  said  Sister  Gen- 
evieve, as  they  walked  away. 

"She  cannot  last  long  with  that  pidse  and  tem- 
perature,"' said  he.  "She  is  a  charming  little  one, 
and  how  she  could  have  been  allowed  to  stray  so 
passes  my  comprehension." 

"I  will  advertise  in  the  New  York  papers,"  said 
the  Sister. 

'  "You  had  better  do  so  to-night,'"  replied  the 
doctor.  "And  God  grant  that  the  father  gets  it  in 
time." 

Next  Elise,  was  a  girl  of  about  ten  years  of  age, 
with  bold  black  e}-es  which  stared  at  the  doctor 
defiant!}'. 

"Doctor,"  said  Sister  Genevieve,  "Why  does 
Nanc\-  reject  everything  from  her  stomach?  She 
cannot  e\en  keep  down  a  little  water.'" 

"Sister.'"   said  the  tloctor,  drawing  himself  up  and 


ELISE.  215 

looking  at  the  girl  keenly.  "I  believe  it  is  nothing 
but  pure  cussedness." 

"Then  I  wonder  you  don't  vomit  more  yourself," 
said  the  girl  saucily. 

The  young  man  exploded  with  laughter  at  the 
retort,  but  the  Sister  looked  gra\ely  reproving. 
Nancy  had  been  in  the  hospital  about  a  week,  and 
everything  that  the  doctor's  skill  could  invent  had 
been  tried  on  her  in  vain.  The  doctor  was  now 
beginning  to  understand  the  case,  and  he  turned  to 
the  Sister  saying : 

"This  girl  is  not  to  have  anything,  either  of  food, 
drink,  or  medicine,  until  ii^■e  o'clock  to-night,  and 
not  then,  unless  she  wants  it,  and  can  retain  it."' 

The  cure  is  effectual.  Nanc}'  has  no  more 
trouble.  She  was  a  poor  untaught  child,  whose 
strange,  uncouth  ways  had  been  a  great  trial  to  both 
Sisters  and  children  in  the  past  week  and  was  also 
very  strong  in  her  likings  and  aversions.  She  was 
devoted  to  Elise  from  the  first,  and  was  ne\er  so 
happy  as  when  allowed  to  do  an}-thing  for  her,  but 
she  had  an  equally  strong  aversion  to  others  which 
she  took  no  pains  to  conceal.  For  instance,  there 
was  a  certain  Sister  who  came  dail}-.  for  an  hour  in 
the  afternoon,  to  relieve  Sister  Genevieve  from  her 
duties.  She  was  very  good  and  conscientious,  but 
had  very  little  sympathy  with  the  children,  and  felt 
her  duty  accomplished  if  her  orders  were  carefully 
executed,  and  the   ward  kept  in  order.      She  found 


2l6  ELISE. 

Nancy  a  great  obstacle  in  the  way  of  preserving 
order,  and  they  were  constantly  running  in  contact.. 

"I  hate  her,"  Nancy  would  confide  to  Elise.  "I 
hate  her  in  the  worst  way.  Never  mind  I'll  be  even 
with  her  yet;  you'll  see." 

Elise  tried  in  vain  to  bring  Nanc}'  to  a  better  state 
of  mind.  The  aversion  grew,  and  Nancy  only 
waited  to  find  a  chance  for  retaliation,  for  being 
constantl}'  reported,  and  brought  to  order.  The 
Sister  in  question  was  tall,  awkward,  retiring,  and 
shy. 

She  was  delighted  one  afternoon,  to  have  Nancy 
propose  a  general  game,  instead  of  stealing  off  by 
herself,  for  mischief,  as  usual. 

"It's  a  perfectly  lovely  game,  Sister,"  she  said, 
with  a  wicked  wink  at  the  children.  "Mav  I  teach 
it  to  you  and  the  children?" 

The  Sister  assented  warmly- and  watched,  with  an 
amused  smile,  Nanc}''s  efforts  to  bring  all  the 
children  up  to  form  a  large  semi-circle  at  the  head 
of  the  ward.  She  hadto  assist  her,  finally,  for  the 
children  were  suspicious  and  afraid  of  Nancy's  games 
and  plans.  When  this  was  at  length  accomplished, 
Nancy  begged  the  the  Sister  to  take  her  place  at 
the  head  of  the  circle  facing  the  entire  length  of  the 
ward  and  then,  after  standing  behind  her  back  and 
making  the  most  hideous  grimaces  at  her,  thereby 
greatly  scandalizing  the  children,  she  made  all 
promise  to  do  exactly  what  she  told  them  at  a  given 


ELISE.  217 

signal.  Then  she  went  the  rounds  and  whispered 
in  each  one's  ear  that  she  was  to  keep  still  and  do 
nothing  until  she  came  to  the  poor  innocent  Sister. 
She  impressed  it  upon  her  that  she  was  to  spring  to 
her  feet,  and  shout  "Kangaroo — 00 — 00,"  as  loud 
as  she  could. 

The  Sister  was  too  good,  herself,  to  suspect  mis- 
chief, and  thinking  she  would  not  be  heard  in  the 
general  confusion,  readily  promised  to  obey. 
Nancy  heard  approaching  footsteps,  and  waited  a 
little,  till  she  saw  them  about  to  enter  the  ward,  and 
then  gav^e  the  signal. 

"One — two — three." 

The  poor  Sister  sprang  to  her  feet,  as  she  had 
promised,  and  called  out  loudly:  "Kanga- 
roo— 00 — 00  I"  and  then  looked  up  to  meet  the 
utterly  astonished  eyes  of  the  Sister-Servant  —  as 
the  Sisters,  of  Charity  so  beautifully  call  their 
Superior — who  was  showing  a  party  of  visitors 
through  the  hospital  with  Dr.  Morse  and  those  of 
the  paralyzed  children,  who  thought  something 
terrible  had  happened.  There  was  a  dreadful  pause 
of  silence,  then  the  children  broke  into  a  merry 
peal  of  laughter,  and  the  doctor  who  took  it  all  in  at 
a  glance,  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  and  fairly 
rocked  to  and  fro  with  laughter.  The  dignified 
Superior  quickly  drew  her  wondering  visitors  through 
the  ward,  and  the  poor  victimized  Sister,  coloring 
painfully,    tried    to  say  a    "Deo  Gratias,"    for  her 


-2  1?  ELISE. 

humiliation,  as  she  turned  again  to  her  duties. 
Nancy,  a  little  frightened  at  the  success  of  her  plot, 
crept  in  beside  Elise's  bed. 

"Oh  Nancy!  how  could  you  ?"  said  the  horrified 
Elise. 

"I  don't  care,  the  old  cat,  I  said  I'd  pa\  her  off," 
said  Nancy,  with  nevertheless,  an  uneasy  air  of 
detiance  about  her. 

"But  what  will  our  Sister  say  ?"  said  Elise  sorrow- 
fully. She  had  grown  fond  of  this  child  of  the 
people,  and  was  anxious  to  screen  her. 

"Nothing  to  me,"  said  Nancy  coolly,  "for  here 
comes  my  mother  to  take  me  home." 

As  she  spoke,  a  stout  woman,  wearing  a  Hashy 
shawl  and  bonnet  came  walking  up  the  ward,  and 
the  Sister  went  forward  to  meet  her. 

"Have  you  a  gurl  hereby  the  nameofNanc\"  Ray?" 
said  the  woman. 

The  .Sister  nodded  assent,  and  motioned  Nancy 
to  come  forward. 

"Sure  thin',  I've  kim  to  take  her  awa)'  to  the 
reform  school,  no  less,  I  tould  her  whin  she  came 
here  that  it  was  the  last  chance  I'd  give  her,  at  all, 
at  all,  an'  her  fayther  he  said  the  same  foreby  an' 
I've 'been  tould  she's  been  plavin"  it  on  the  howly 
nuns,  thimselves,  as  she  did  on  us,  and  sure  there's 
no  other  place  for  her,  but  the  lockin'  up,  though  it 
breaks  my  very  heart  to  say  it.  Ma}'  tiie  Lord 
for<n\e  her." 


EIJSE.  219 

"  I  won't  go,"  said  Nancy  defiantly,  "  I'll  run 
away." 

"Then,  go  you  will,  }-ou  bad  childcr.  \'our 
Uncle  John  himself  an'  no  other,  is  waiting  bej-ant 
to  slip  the  handcuffs  on  }'ez,  and  put  yez  in  his  black 
cart,  if  yez  makes  an}-  trouble  at  all,  at  all." 

Poor  Nancy  turned  pale  at  hearing  this,  for  hef 
Uncle  John  was  the  only  one  living,  of  whom 
she  stood  in  fear. 

"May  the  Lord  be  between  us  and  all  harum, 
Sister,"  said  the  mother  again  turning  to  the  Sister. 
"But  it's  her  Uncle  John,  who  is  a  policeman,  and 
he  the  only  one  in  this  mortal  world,  who  kin  make  her 
mind,  and  he  knows  too  well  the  throuble  that  child 
has  given  us.  She's  the  \'oungest  of  all  mc  sivin, 
and  the  onl)-  one  who  has  not  done  well.  She  was 
the  smartest,  and  perhaps  I  spoilt  her.  The  Lord 
forgive  me  —  but  she's  got  be\'ant  me  now 
entirely,  entirely  I  'Twas  onl\-  last  St.  Patrick's  Day, 
Sister,  whin  she  la\-  in  fits  on  me  bed,  and  all  the  neigh- 
bors in  to  see  her  draw  her  last  breath,  and  me  old 
man  gone  fer  the  priest  bezant,  and  while  we  was 
prayin'  the  procession  wint  b}s  and  we  jist  slipped 
to  the  windy  a  minit,  an'  whin  we  wint  back  to  the 
childer  again  she  wasn't  there  at  all,  at  all.  What 
should  the  spalpeen  do,  but  \\hin  me  back  was 
turned,  but  rin  down  the  stairs  and  out  on  the 
strates,  she  who  was  dying  a  minit  before,  an  folly 
that  procession  the  rest  of  the  da}'.      And  me  that  was 


220  ELISE. 

shamed  whin  the  howly  father  kim,  that  I  couldn't 
raise  me  e}'es  to  his  face,  to  tell  him  the  whole  truth. 
'Mrs.  R-ciy,'  he  says,  'I  fear  ye'll  sup  throuble  wid 
her  yet,'  an'  so  I  hev  indade.  Well  I  giv  her  fair 
warning,  whin  she  tuk  sick  agin  an'  I  sint  her  here, 
that  it  wor  her  last  chance,  and  her  father  the  same, 
an'  now  she'll  have  to  go  where  slie'll  be  made  to 
behave   herself." 

The  Sister  looked  at  Nancy.  The  child  seemed 
petrified  with  fear,  and  stood  gazing  at  her,  with 
imploring  e}es.  clasped  hands  and  white  face. 

"Nancy,"  said  she  gently,  "if  I  ask  our  mother 
to  keep  you  here,  will  you  be  good?" 

In  an  instant  the  child  was  on  her  knees  at  the 
Sister's  side  clinging  to  her  habit,  weeping  \'iolently, 
and  hiding  her  face  in  the  folds. 

"Oh  Sister  I"  she  said,  "if  }'ou  will  onh'  keep  me 
I  will  be  good,  indeed,  indeed  I  will  be  the  best 
-girl  in  the  house." 

"If  you  will  leave  her  until  to-morrow,  Mrs.  Ray," 
said  the  Sister,  "I  will  speak  to  the  Superior,  and 
let  you  know  what  she  says." 

"Indade,  Sister,  you're  far  too  good,  for  the  likes 
as  her,  an'  me  and  my  man  will  be  forever  grateful 
to  yez." 

The  mother  departed,  never  knowing  how  little 
her  child  deserved  such  kindness  at  the  Sister's 
hands  :  but  the  children  who  were  looking  on  anx- 
iously, some  of  them  crying,  learned  a  lesson  of 
Christian  forgiveness  never  forgotten. 


ELISE.  22  1 

It  proved  the  turning  point  in  Nancy's  life.  She 
became  as  wax  in  the  hands  of  the  hated  Sister, 
and  true  to  her  word  a  great  comfort  and  support  of 
the  community.  Of  course  it  took  long  years  of 
patient  training,  but  in  the  end  she  came  forth — 
a  perfect  religious. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

THK    ARTIS'J'. 

The  northern  end  of  the  children's  ward,  in  the 
Sisters'  Hospital,  was  nearly  filled  with  a  large  open 
iireplace,  A  jet  of  gas  was  always  kept  burning 
in  this,  when  it  was  not  cool  enough  to  haxe  a  fire, 
and  by  this  means,  a  constant  ventilation  was 
preser\ed.  Around  the  fireplace  was  an  iron  guard 
to  preserve  the  babies  from  accident,  and  o\er  it  a 
text  illuminated  in  bright  colored  letters: 

••Lord,    behold  I  he  whom   Thou  loxest  is  sick." 

By  the  side  of  each  little  bed  w^as  a  stand,  sacred 
to  the  occupant  of  the  bed,  where  the  children's 
little  gifts,  pla\'things  and  various  treasures  were 
kept.  Prett\',  bright  chromos  were  hung  on  the  wall 
over  the  beds,  and  a  deep  ba}-  window  had  been 
transformed  into  a  Shrine  i»f  Our  Lady,  b}-  lining  it 
with  English  i\'\'  and  surrounding  the  statue  with 
the  long  graceful  leaves  of  the  calla  lilies,  palms  and 
ferns.  This  was  partly  concealed  by  a  screen,  with 
a  dark  background,  on  which  the  children  had 
pasted  their  most  valued  'holy  cards',  as  the}'  called 


ELISE.  225 

the  little  cards  printed  with  sacred  pictures,  which 
were  given  them.  Happy  was  the  child  who  was 
permitted  to  give  a  flower  to  Our  Lad)"s  Shrine, 
and  the  charge  of  it  was  the  greatest  honor  possible 
to  receive. 

The  various  little  charges  which  the  children  were 
permitted  to  undertake  were  subjects  of  great  de- 
light, and  helped  in  no  small  degree  to  preserve 
order  in  the  ward.  Next  in  honor  to  the  shrine, 
was  the  keeping  of  Sister's  table  in  perfect  order,  dust- 
ing and  putting  pens,  paper,  etc.,  in  exact  squares  : 
while  little  Ned  Blackstone  announced  triumphantly 
to  his  friends,  one  day,  when  on  a  visit  to  him,  that 
he  was  "boss  of  the  hammock." 

One  Saturda}'  morning  alter  Elise  had  entered 
the  hospital.  Sister  Genevie\'e  was  sitting  on  a  bab3''s 
chair  in  the  room  oft  the  ward,  wliich  was  devoted 
to  her  use,  with  a  large  bag  of  stockings  before  her, 
from  which  she  was  vainly  endea\"oring  to  pick  a 
sufficient  number  of  matched  pairs  to  gi\'e  each 
child  clean  ones  on  the  morrow.  The  children  as 
usual  were  all  collected  around  her.  Splints  and 
crutches  struck  out  in  ever}'  direction. 

Buttons  pulled  himself  up  by  the  back  of  the 
little  chair,  on  which  she  was  seated,  and  peered 
round  in  her  face  with  the  most  coaxing  and  win- 
ning way  imaginable  ;  he  stood  on  his  well  foot,  and 
waved  the  lame  one  wildl\-  and  persuasivel}'  round 
in  the  air  and  remarked  : 


224  ELISE. 

"  Please,  Sister,  I  pe  de  doctor,  an'  you  pe  de  case." 

Sister  Genevieve  resigned  herself  to  the  situation, 
and  still  endeavored  to  pick  out  and  match  stock- 
ings, while  she  was  having  her  pulse  felt,  her  lungs 
sounded,  and  Tessie,  who  had  been  called  up  as 
nurse,  received  some  astounding  orders  in  stern 
and  dictatorial  tones.  Jack,  the  ward  cat,  sat  on  a 
table  near  b}'  surveying  the  scene  approvingly.  He 
was  a  Maltese  cat  of  immense  size,  very  dignified 
and  reserved.  The  boldest  child  never  ventured 
any  liberties,  and  he  onl}-  permitted  special  favorites 
to  stroke  him.  He  was  especially  devoted  to  Sister 
Genevieve,  however,  following  her  around  like  a 
dog,  jumping  on  the  table  near  her,  whenever  she 
sat  down  to  write,  and  if  she  did  not  speak  to  him, 
he  would  put  out  his  paw,  and  knock  her  pen,  to  the 
great  disaster  of  the  writing.  Sometimes  he  would 
spring  from  the  floor  to  her  shoulder,  to  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  children. 

The  Sister-Servant  entered  the  ward  with  the  same 
gentleman  who  had  visited  the  hospital  on  the  day 
in  which  poor  Sister's  humiliation  was  given  by 
Nancy.  This  broke  up  Button's  clinic  as  Sister 
Genevieve  went  forward  to  greet  them. 

The  gentleman  was  introduced  to  her  as  an  artist, 
who  had  come  to  beg  leave  to  make  some  studies  of 
the  children's  faces.  He  could  hardly  reply  to 
Sister  Genevieve's  greetings  as  he  looked  up  the 
ward  at  Elise's  bed. 


ELISE.  225 

"Did  you  ever  see  anything  more  beautiful?"  he 
said  enthusiastically. 

Nancy  had  been  permitted  to  come  from  the 
laundry,  where  she  was  working,  to  make  a  v'sit  to 
Elise.  She  was  making  a  silk  quilt,  and  had  the 
bright  pieces  spread  out  on  Elise's  bed,  and  the  two 
were  bending  over  them,  earnestly  discussing  the 
arrangement  of  colors.  The  contrast  in  the  two 
faces  was  almost  startling.  Nancy's  full  round  face, 
rather  dull  and  sensual,  and  the  delicate,  spiritual 
look  of  the  other,  bending  over  her,  like  her  guardian 
angel.  • 

The  Sister-Servant  smiled  a  little  sadly,  and  replied 
to  the  artist : 

"It  means  to  us,  I  fear,  the  beaut}'  which  must 
shortly  leave  us.  Her  s3'mptoms  show  that  the 
little  one  is  fast  getting  ready  for  heaven." 

"Truly,"  said  he,  "I  think  you  are  right.  Her 
body  seems  only  a  most  beautifulh-  transparent  veil 
through  which  the  soul  shines,  impatient  to  be  set 
free." 

"Has  anything  been  heard  from  her  father?" 
asked  Sister  Genevieve. 

"Nothing,"  said  the  Sister-Servant. 

"I  was  just  telling  the  Superior,"  said  the  artist, 
to  Sister  Genevieve,  "that  we  artists  always  like  to 
go  to  Catholic  schools  and  institutions  for  our 
children's  faces.  There  is  a  mysterious  charm  in 
their   expression  which   we   find    nowhere    else.      I 


226  KI.ISK. 

fannot  tell  where  it  conies  from.  I  have  no  rehgion 
myself,  but  all  my  artist  friends,  and  I  have  scores 
of  them,  tell  me  the  same  thing." 

"The  expression  you  fancy,  comes  from  the  re- 
ception of  the  Sacraments,"  said  Sister  Genevieve, 
as  they  advanced  up  the  ward  toward  Elise. 

"  Elise,"'  said  the  Sister-Servant,  "  here  is  a  gentle- 
man who  wishes  to  take  your  picture." 

Elise  looked  up  at  the  gentleman  ver}'  calmly, 
and  replied  : 

"Papa  had  our  pictures  taken  at  Christmas,  and  I 
don't  think  he  would  want  them  agairt  so  soon,  and 
besides  I  have  no  money  to  pay  for  them." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  the  artist,  smiling  at  her 
simplicity,  "I  do  not  mean  to  take  more  than  one 
picture,  and  I  will  ):»a}-  \'ou  for  that,  as  I  want  to  keep 
it  for  myself." 

"But  you  do  not  know  me  !"  said  the  child. 

"No,  but  I  would  like  \-our  face  in  a  picture  I  am 
painting,"  said  he. 

"Do  you  want  to  put  me  in  a  picture  to  hang  on 
the  wall?" 

"Yes." 

"But  that  would  be  a  pity,  I  would  not  do.  Henri 
said  1  should  never  be  pretty,  and  now  my  hair  is 
all  cut  off." 

"If  it  would  not  tire  you  too  much,"  said  the  Sup- 
erior, "1  will  allow  the  gentleman  to  come  a  little 
time  each  afternoon  to  paint  you.     Will  that  interfere 


ELISK.  227 

in  anything  else?"  said  she  turning  to  Sister  Gene- 
^•ieve. 

"Not  at  this  hour,  m\'  Sister,"  answered  Sister 
Genevieve. 

So  it  was  arranged,  but  as  they  were  turning 
a\va\%  Elise  called  the  artist  back,  and  said  rather 
shyh' : 

''Didyoii  say  you  would  pa}'  me 'some  money?" 

"Yes,'"  said  the  artist  amused  at  the  child's  pre- 
cociousness.  "She  has  the  Yankee  spirit  after  all," 
he  thought  with  a  sense  of  disappointment.  "How 
much  do  you  want?" 

"Oh  I  I  want  so  much  to  get  to  New  York,  and  I 
cannot  walk  anv  more,  you  see.  I  must  go  to  my 
papa.  Would  that  cost  more  than  vou  could  pay 
me?" 

"No." 

"Will  it  take  }"ou  \-er}'  long?" 

"No:  I  will  give  j^ou  enough  mone)'  to  take  }'ou 
to  New  York,  and  I  will  not  be  long;  but  better,  I 
will  write  to  a  friend  of  mine,  who  will  tind  him  if  he 
is  in  the  cit}',  and  send  him  here." 

Elise  caught  his  hand,  and  kissed  it,  with  childlike 
grace  and  simplicit}-,  and  the  artist  felt  himself  well 
repaid  by  the  radiant,  grateful  look  which  stole  over 
her  little  face  as  she  lay  back  on  her  pillows.  They 
left  her.  Nancy  gazed  at  her  anxiousl\".  Elise 
smiled  at  her  reassuringly,  and  said  : 

"I  think  it  is  the  pain  in  m}-  side,  Nancy:  if  you 


228  ELISE. 

would  make  me  one  of  your  nice  mustard  plasters,, 
dear." 

Nancv  flew  off  to  beg  the  materials,  and  soon  re- 
turned with  the  plaster  made  just  as  Elise  liked  them, 
so  that  they  would  warm  the  skin  without  making  it 
smart.  Shall  I  tell  you  how  that  was?  She  put  in 
only  a  half  teaspoonful  of  mustard,  and  two  tea- 
spoonfuls  of  flour  :  she  wet  this  with  exactly  two  tea- 
spoonfuls  of  warm  water,  so  that  it  would  not  be  too 
wet,  and  soil  her  patient's  clothing.  It  took  a  good 
deal  of  stirring  to  make  it  nice  and  smooth,  and  free 
from  lumps ;  then  she  carefully  spread  this  on  a 
piece  of  old  muslin,  and  covered  the  face  of  the 
plaster  with  the  same,  the  edges  of  the  muslin  were 
then  carefull}'  turned  in. 

"Leave  it  where  I  can  look  at  it,"  said  Elise,  one 
day  to  Nancy,  when  she  removed  it.  "They  have 
been  such  a  comfort  to  me." 

When  Nancy  had  applied  the  plaster,  and  turned 
away  to  wash  her  hands,  Jack  did  a  very  strange 
thing.  He  had  been  sitting  on  Nancy's  stool,  in  the 
meantime,  gravely  looking  at  Elise  as  if  trying  to 
form  a  diagnosis,  but  now  he  bounded  from  the  stool, 
kicked  his  heels  high  in  the  air,  and  with  tail  erect, 
bounded  around  the  ward,  and  then  disappeared 
in  the  Sister's  room.  The  children  shouted,  and 
Elise  joined  in  the  laugh,  in  spite  of  the  pain. 

"What  can  be  the  matter  with  Jack?"  she  said, 
"how  funnv  he  acts." 


ELISE.  229 

"He  wanted  to  smell  of  your  mustard  plaster,'" 
said  Nancy  demurely,   "and  I  let  him." 

"Oh  I  Nancy,  his  poor  nose  will  smart,  giv^e  him 
some  water  when  you  wash  vour  hands." 

"jAll  right,"  said  Nancy,  "but  I  don't  think  he'll 
take  it  from  me." 

When  Nancy  came  back  she  found  it  nearl\'  four, 
and  seeing  that  Elise  was  wear}',  she  commenced 
packing  away  her  silks  with  rather  a  downcast  air. 

Elise  tenderly  took  her  hand,  when  she  had 
finished,  saying  :      "  What  is  it,  Nannie?  " 

"Oh!  Elise,"  said  Nancy  hiding  her  tears  in  the 
child's  pillow,  "I  do  want  to  be  good,  and  please 
the  Sisters,  but  they  are  so  particular  and  hard  to 
please.  They  want  you  to  look  just  so,  speak  just 
so,  and  walk  just  so.  I  think  some  times  I  can't  bear 
it,  I  must  run  awa)'."' 

There  was  a  little  pause,  and  Elise  drew  the  rough 
head  down  by  her  side  on  the  bed,  and  tenderly 
smoothed  the  hair,  whispering  : 

"You  would  not  do  that  for  my  sake,   Nannie?" 

A  pressure  of  the  little  hand,  was  the  only  res- 
ponse. 

"Nannie,  do  3'ou  remember  that  dreadful  woman 
that  }'ou  told  me  was  brought  in  here  last  week?" 

A  mute  affirmative  movement  of  the  head.. 

"You  said  she  was  more  like  an  animal  than  a 
Christian,  and  that  you  had  to  burn  up  her  clothes; 
they  were  in  such  a  dreadful  condition.      I   suppose 


230  ELISE. 

she  was  a  young  girl  like  you  and  me  once,  and  I 
think  that  is  why  the  Sisters  seem  so  particular.  We 
have  to  master  ourselves,  or  ourselves  will  master 
us,  and  that  is  why  we  must  not  allow  ourselves  to 
sit  in  lounging,  lazy  postures,  to  take  great  pains  to 
be  neat  in  our  person,  and  not  to  run  up  stairs,  or 
laugh,  and  talk  in  a  loud,  rough  way,  or  else  our 
bodies  will  be  the  master,  and  we  the  servant,  and 
then  we  shall  fall  as  low  as  that  poor  drunken  wo- 
jnan. 

"Oh  I  Elise,"  said  Nancy,  lifting  her  head,  "I  could 
never  be  like  that.     I  should  always  be  respectable." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Elise  shaking  her  head,  wise- 
ly, "Father  Lawrence  used  to  say  that  we  all  had  a 
wild  beast  within  us,  which  we  must  conquer,  or  it 
would  conquer  us,  and  although  the  Sisters  may 
try  to  help  us,  no  one,  not  even  God,  could  do  it  for 
us.  We  must  do  it  ourselves  by  the  help  of  His 
grace." 

Elise  bowed  her  head  over  Nancy's,  praying  with 
all  her  heart  for  this  poor  child,  who  was  having  so 
hard  a  struggle  with  her  wild, nature.  The  clock 
struck  four  and  all  the  children  blessed  themselves 
saying  the  Hail  Mary  according  to  custom.  Then 
Nancy  rose  saying  with  firm  determination. 

"I  will  conquer  myself  or  die.  I  will  do  it  if  only 
to  please  you." 


CHAPTER  XX. 


PAPA,    AT  LAST. 

The  severe  pain  felt  by  Elise,  on  the  afternoon  of 
Nancy's  visit,  proved  the  beginning  of  a  fresh  attack 
of  her  disease.  The  child  sank  rapidly  after  this, 
had  constant  high  fever,  and  was  either  in  delirium 
or  stupor  most  of  the  time. 

Nancy's  grief  and  devotion  were  so  great  that  she 
was  appointed  special  nurse  and  was  permitted  to 
stay  with  her  constantly,  except  the  hours  in  which 
the  Sisters  thought  it  necessary  for  her  to  take  oft" 
duty,  for  her  health. 

Nothing  had  been  heard  from  M.  de  la  Roche,  in 
spite  of  all  the  attempts  that  had  been  made  to  dis- 
cover him,  and  as  a  last  resort  the  Chaplain  had 
written  to  the  Jesuit  College,  in  New  York,  to  see 
if  the  Fathers  there  could  find  any  trace  of  him. 
All  were  praying  very  earnestly  that  he  might  arrive 
in  time  and  the  child  seemed  holding  to  the  frail 
thread  which  bound  her  here  for  that  purpose  only. 

It  was  about  a  week  after  the  artist's  visit,  that  M.  de  la 
Roche  suddenly  arrived  with  Father  Grey,  the  Jesuit, 


232  ELISE, 

who  had  been  on  the  steamer  with  Elise.  It  was 
about  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening,  but  the  danger  of 
death  seemed  imminent,  and  the  Superior  took 
them  direptly  to  the  ward.  All  the  children  were  in 
bed,  the  gas  was  turned  down  very  low.  In  a  room 
at  the  end  of  the  ward,  sat  the  night  nurse,  A\'here, 
from  her  chair,  she  could  see  the  entire  ward.  The 
gas  jet  in  this  room  was  up,  for  the  Sister  was  busy 
sewing.  She  rose,  as  she  heard  the  door  open,  and 
came  forward  to  meet  them  with  a  look  of  inquiry 
on  her  face.  When  she  heard  who  the  gentleman 
was  that  the  Superior  was  bringing  to  the  ward, 
her  face  became  radiant  with  happiness,  and  the 
four  walked  softly  together,  up  between  the  rows  of 
sleeping  children.  It  was  a  pity  the  artist  was  not 
there  then  to  catch  the  grace  of  the  attitudes  of  the 
sleeping  children.  Elise  was  asleep  propped  up  on 
her  pillows.  Nancy  had  not  yet  left  her  for  the 
night,  but  sat  with  her  head  h'ing  on  the  side  of  the 
bed.  Elise's  hand  still  rested  on  it.  The  girl's  dark 
eyes  surveyed  the  group  questioningly,  but  she  dared 
not  raise  her  head  lest  she  would  wake  her  sleeping 
charge.  The  corners  of  her  mouth  were  drooping 
with  sorrow,  and  the  eyes  heavy  with  unshed 
tears. 

M.  de  la  Roche  stood  immovable,  gazing  at  his 
sleeping  child  so  sadly  changed  since  he  had  parted 
from  her  on  the  landing  at  Regalia.  Elise  stirred 
in  her  sleep  and  moaned   a  little,  and  then   suddenly 


ELISE.  233 

•opened  her  eyes,  sat  up,  and  stretched  out  her  arms 
•crying : 

"Papa,  at  hist;  papa,  my  own  papa,  at  last,  at 
last!" 

Then  the  father  and  child  were  locked  in  the 
closest  embrace.  Nancy  rose,  and  the  Superior  drew 
her  away,  at  the  same  time  pushing  a  chair  for  the 
poor  father,  who  sat  down  in  it  still  holding  Elise  in 
his  arms.  The  others  withdrew  to  the  Sister's  room, 
leaving  them  alone. 

"Papa,"  she  said,  "the}'  want  me  at  home,  in 
Heaven,  but  I  would  not  go,  until  I  had  seen  you 
first." 

There  was  no  response  onh^  a  little  closer  em- 
brace. 

"May  I  go,  papa?" 

"Oh  Elise,  m\'  darling,  ni}-  only  hope,  how  can  I 
spare  you?" 

There  was  a  little  silence,  then  Elise  put  up 
lier  hand  caressingly  and  patted  his  cheek  ;  it  was 
cold,  very  cold,  and  the  hand  wandered  to  his  fore- 
head, it  was  wet  with  drops  of  cold  sweat.  She  be- 
came alarmed,  and  raising  herself  looked  at  his 
face. 

"My  Sister,  my  Sister,"  she  called  in  an  alarmed 
tone. 

The  Sister  on  night  duty  came  quickh'  to  her 
side,  and  Elise  taking  her  hand  put  it  on  her  father's 
forehead,  saying : 


234  ELISE. 

'■  My  poor  papa  is  sick,  he  wants  some  medicine.' 

"No,  dear," said  her  father  in  a  strained  unnatural 
voice — he  was  evidently  making  a  great  effort  for 
composure — "medicine  will  not  help  papa." 

The  Sister  smiled,  and  said  : 

"Truly,  sir,  you  do  stand  greatly  in  need  of  rest 
and  refreshment,  and  the  little  one  has  had  all  that 
she  can  bear  to-night.  Will  you  not  bid  her  good 
night,  and  then  come  with  me  for  a  cup  of  tea?" 

The  poor  father  shook  his  head,  and  held  his  child 
more  closely ;  it  seemed  to  him  unsafe  to  leave  her, 
even  for  a  minute,  lest  she  should  vanish  again 
from  his  sight. 

"The  naughty  papa ;"  said  Elise,  playfully,  "did 
you  not  hear  Sister,  and  don't  you  know  we  have 
to  mind  her.  Put  me  down  on  my  bed,  and  go 
directly." 

The  father  still  hesitated,  but  as  the  Sister  shook 
out  the  pillows,  and  straightened  the  bed,  he  laid  her 
down  for  a  little,  and  followed  the  Sister  to  please 
the  child,  intending  to  return  soon  and  take  up  the 
watch.  Elise  sank  back  with  an  expression  of 
supreme  content  in  her  face. 

The  gentleman  who  had  entered  the  ward  with 
him  now  came  forward  and  said  : 

"Have  you  no  word  for  me,  Elise?" 

"Father  Grey !  Another !  how  good  God  is," 
said  she  fervently.  "Oh!  how  did  you  get  here? 
and  where  are  the  rest?" 


ELISE.  235 

"  We  must  not  talk  about  it  to-night,"  said  he  ;. 
"  I  will  only  tell  you  that  all  were  saved,  picked; 
up  by  another  steamer,  and  carried  to  New  York. 
Your  father  met  us,  and  we  had  to  tell  him  that 
you  were  lost.  When  we  got  word  at  the  college 
that  you  were  here,  I  lost  no  time  in  telling  your 
father,  and  we  came  on  together  to  capture  the 
runaway." 

"Will  you  tell  me  one  thing,  Father?  Does  papa 
need  me?    verv  much,  I  mean?" 

"My  little  daughter,"  said  the  Father,  "}'ou  ma>^ 
be  sure  he  does.  I  have  been  at  your  home,  Elise, 
and  it  is  not  a  happy  one.  It  is  ver}'  different  from 
what  I  have  heard  of  Regalia.  Your  mother  misses 
her  servants  and  is  most  unhappy.  The  boys  need 
a  sister  to  keep  them  off  the  streets,  and  Henri,  to 
make  him  go  punctually  to  school.  Your  father 
needs  a  little  daughter's  sympathy,  and  some  one  to 
brighten  him  when  he  returns  to  a  sad  home  at  night. 
Do  you  understand  me?" 

"Yes,  Father,"  said  the  child,  "I  understand." 
She  lay  still  for  a  moment  with  her  eyes  closed,  and 
her  hands  clasped  as  in  prayer,  then  she  spoke 
again:  "Father  Grey,  they  were  going  to  bring  me  my 
Viaticum  tomorrow  morning.  I  was  anointed  to- 
day. Now  I  want  you  to  persuade  the  Sister  to  let 
me  go  to  the  Chapel  tomorrow  for  Holy  Communion^ 
and  I  am  going  to  ask  the  Sacred  Heart  to  cure  me, 
for  papa,   and  I  will   get  our  Blessed   Lady  and   St. 


236  ELISE. 

Vincent  de  Paul  to  pray  for  me  too,  and  you,  dear 
Father,  will  }'ou  not?" 

Her  father  now  returned  for  the  night,  and  Elise 
sat  up  in  the  bed,  and  putting  her  arms  round  his 
neck  said  : 

"Papa,  you  are  disobedient.  1  want  )"ou  to  go  to 
bed  ;  }'ou  need  not  be'afraid,  I  am  going  to  get  well, 
ind  will  go  back  home  with  }'ou  tomorrow." 

The  father  looked  at  her  in  consternation,  he 
thought  her  wandering,  and  said  soothingly  : 

"The  Sister  is  willing  I  should  stay  with  you, 
Elise.  I  would  rather  not  leave  you  now  I  have  at 
last  found  you." 

The  thought  of  how  he  had  found  her,  and  how 
soon  he  must  again  lose  her,  forced  a  sob  from  the 
strong  man.  But  the  child  entreated  so  earnestly 
that  they  were  obliged  to  give  way  to  her  and  he 
allowed  P'ather  Grey  to  lead  him  aw^ay,  promising 
to  attend  mass  in  the  hospital  chapel  in  the  morning. 

"Nancy"'  called  P21ise  after  they  had  gone. 
Nancy  went  to  her  and  found,  as  she  feared,  the  child 
in  great  nervous  excitement  with  burning  fever. 

"Nanc}/"  she  whispered,  'T-must  get  w^ell,  papa 
needs  me." 

Nancy  was  silent. 

•"I  want  the  relic  of  St.  Vincent  dc  Paul.  Go  now, 
and  ask  Sister  Genevieve." 

Nancy  hesitated,  but  the  child  was  so  in  earnest 
and  excited  tliat  .<-hc  went  for  Sister  Gcnc\  ie\e,  who 


ELISE. 


237 


brought  the  reHc,  and  hung  it  around  the  child's 
neck.  Then  she  insisted  on  seeing  everything  she 
needed  laid  out  for  the  morning,  and  after  this  took 
her  sedative  and  went  quietl}'  to  sleep  while  saying 
her  rosary.  She  slept  quietly,  until  just  before  mid- 
night, when  she  woke  with  a  loud  cry.  The  night 
Sister  went  to  her  side  and  found  her  in  such  pain 
that  she  started  for  the  doctor. 

"No,  Sister,  no,"  gasped  the  child,  "not  the  doctor, 
but  my  bottle  of  Lourdes  water."' 

She  had  had  one  presented  her  some  weeks  before 
but  for  some  unknown  reason  had  refused  to  use  it. 
The  Sister  brought  the  bottle  in  silence,  unsealed  and 
drew  out  the  cork.  The  child  drank  and  then  made 
the  Sister  sponge  her  with  the  remainder  from  head 
to  foot.  She  was  immediately  relieved,  and  sank  to 
sleep  once  more,  and  slept  quietly  until  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


A    MIRACLE. 


The  next  morning,  the  sun  shone  brilliantly 
through  the  stained  glass  windows  of  the  hospital  chap- 
el of  the  Sisters  of  Chant3^  It  was  a  pretty  chapel, 
by  far  the  finest  room  in  the  house.  The  reredos 
was  of  dark  oak,  handsome!}'  carved,  and  reached 
from  the  altar  to  the  ceiling.  The  altar  also  was 
of  oak,  but  the  tabernacle  was  carved  from  the  purest 
white  marble  with  doors  of  polished  brass.  In  the 
reredos  above  the  tabernacle  was  a  painting  of  the 
Ascension,  our  Lord  in  the  act  of  ascending,  with 
His  hands  stretched  out  in  blessing  and  with  a  pit}^- 
ing  expression  in  His  eyes,  which  seemed  to  say: 

"What  can  I  do  for  you  ;  before  I  am  taken  away 
from  you?" 

The  floor  of  the  chapel  was  tiled  in  black  and 
white  marble  ;  in  the  sanctuary  were  some  handsome 
rugs  spread,  to  prevent  noise  and  colds.  On  the 
eastern  side  of  the  sanctuary  was  a  large  stained 
glass  window,  representing  the  Good  Shepherd  car- 
rying the  lamb  on  His  shoulders,  through  which,  as 


ELISE.  239 

we  have  said,  the  sun  was  shining  brightly,  saucily 
tinting  the  black  cambric  caps,  with  red,  blue,  and 
yellow,  and  adding  more  light  to  the  peaceful  faces,, 
which  shone  already  with  the  light  of  interior  peace. 
The  light  from  the  Good  Shepherd  even  streamed 
across  and  lightened  the  opposite  window,  on  the  west 
side.  This  was  a  representation  of  St.  Vincent  de 
Paul,  holding  the  little  ones  in  his  arms,  with  others 
grasping  his  soutane  as  they  stood  at  his  feet,  as 
the  saint  is  usually  represented. 

The  seats  for  the  children  were  in  the  eastern 
transept,  at  right  angles  with  the  main  body  of  the 
chapel,  raised  a  little  higher  than  the  rest,  so  that 
they  were  in  full  view  of  the  congregation.  They 
entered  through  a  side  door  opening  into  the  tran- 
sept from  a  corridor  connected  with  the  ward,  that 
the  children  might  get  their  places  as  quickly  and 
quietly  as  possible.  It  was  necessary,  for  the  clatter 
of  the  crutches  and  splints  re-echoed  through  the 
chapel.  The  lame  and  halt  were  followed  by 
quieter  children,  and  then  a  wheeled  chair  on  which 
lay  our  little  Elise,  supported  by  pillows.  Her 
father  was  in  the  main  body  of  the  chapel,  and  gave 
a  start  of  terror  when  he  saw  her  rolled  in.  He 
accused  the  Sisters,  in  his  heart,  for  great  impru- 
dence. She  lay  on  the  white  pillows,  with  closed 
eyes,  as  white  as  the  pillows  themselves,  but  when  he 
saw  the  smile,  and  that  her  lips  were  moving  in 
prayer,  he  was  reassured. 


240  ELISE. 

''How  imprudent  in  the  Sisters,"  he  mentally  ex- 
claimed :  "how  could  they  have  let  her  come 
out  at  this  hour;  there  must  be  draughts  up  in  that 
place."  Then  came  the  mental  problem,  which  he 
knew  must  be  solved.  How  could  he  leave  his  d}-- 
ing  child,  his  heart's  best  beloved,  and  yet,  what 
would  the}"  do  without  him,  the  bread  winner  and 
staff  on  whom  all  leaned  at  home? 

He  had  secured  a  position  as  bookkeeper  in  an 
office  down  town,  but  he  knew  he  was  likely  to  lose 
it  if  his  absence  was  prolonged,  and  the  thought  of 
that  turned  him  cold  with  the  knowledge  of  the  con- 
sequences to  them  who  looked  to  him  as  their  pro- 
vider. 

The  priest  entered,  and  he  strove  to  put  away  his 
distractions,  and  pray. 

Father  Grey  celebrated  the  Mass  this  morning  in 
place  of  the  ordinar}'  chaplain,  giving  Elise  his 
intention.  He  intended  to  carry  the  Holy  Com- 
munion to  Elise  after  the  others  had  received,  but 
to  the  amazement  of  all  present  when  the  children 
went  forward  to  receive,  Elise  stood  up  also,  stepped 
from  her  carriage  and  went  up" with  them. 

The  Sister  in  charge  of  the  children  started  from 
her  knees  as  if  to  stop  her,  but  as  at  a  signal  from 
the  Superior,  who  had  been  watching  the  child 
intently,  she  knelt  again  and  the  child  went  rever- 
entl\-  forward  with  bowed  head  and  clasped  hands, 
and  knelt  down  with  the  others.      When  she  returned 


ELISE.  241 

again  from  the  altar,  she  did  not  go  back  to  her  chair, 
but  knelt  in  the  pew,  with  the  other  children,  up- 
right, and  without  support,  through  the  rest  of  the 
mass. 

The  others  did  not  seem  to  notice  her,  they  were 
v^ery  quiet  and  recollected.  The  atmosphere  was 
redolent  with  solemn  awe  and  peace  ineffable. 

When  the  children  had  finished  their  thanksgiving 
they  rose  to  go  out,  and  Elise  walked  out  with 
them,  as  demurely  and  composedly  as  though  noth- 
ing unusual  had  occurred,  until  they  reached  the 
corridor,  and  the  chapel  door  closed  behind  them. 
Then  she  broke  ranks,  and  so  excited  the  others 
that  they  followed  her  bad  example  and  all  who  were 
able  flew  with  her  down  the  long  corridor,  Elise  at  the 
head  shouting  as  they  ran  into  the  ward  : 

"I  am  cured  I    I  am  cured  !" 

She  was  quickl}-  followed  by  the  Superior  and 
her  father  who  knew  not  what  to  expect,  but  were 
startled  and  anxious  at  what  they  had  seen.  Elise 
flew  into  her  father's  arms  crying  out : 

"I  told  you  so,  papa.  God  has  given  me  back  to 
you.  I  asked  Him  to  do  it,  and  our  Blessed  Lady, 
and  St.  Vincent  de  Paul  asked  Him  too,  and  He  has 
cured  me  ;  I  am  well,  quite  well." 

Dr.  Morse  followed  next,  looking  rather  grim  and 
non-committal.  He  examined  her  lungs  thoroughly, 
and  then  turned  to  the  father,  striking  his  stethe- 
scope  on  his  knee,  as  he  said  emphatically : 


242  ELISE. 

"I  can  only  say,  that  yesterda}'  the  child's  kings 
were  in  the  last  stages  of  disease,  and  to-day  the\- 
are  sound  and  well." 

"Deo  gratias,"  saici  the  Superior  fervently  in  a  low 
tone,  and  then  added  to  M.  de  la  Roche.  "It  is  not 
the  first  time  that  these  things  have  been  sent  to  us, 
but  we  find  it  best  to  keep  very  quiet  about  them." 
Her  eyes  filled  with  thankful  tears  as  she  spoke  and 
she  turned  awa}^  to  go  to  the  chapel  there  to  give 
thanks  where  they  were  due. 

The  poor  father,  deathly  white,  quite  dazed  and 
bewildered,  kept  the  child  close  to  him  as  long  as 
he  could,  fearing  an  illusion  and  dreading  to  see  her 
break  down  again ;  but  she  sent  him  off  for  his 
breakfast,  and  to  make  arrangements  for  their  re- 
turn home.  She  could  hardly  be  persuaded  to  take 
her  own  for  she  wanted  to  visit  every  part  of  the 
hospital  and  announce  her  cure. 

Nancy,  not  less  rejoiced  than  the  child  herself, 
went  with  her  and,  hand  in  hand,  they  went  from 
one  room  to  another  until  every  soul  in  the  house 
had  offered  congratulations  to  .the  dear  child,  whom 
all  had  learned  to  love. 

Toward  noon,  the  chapel  bell  rang  and  all  hasten- 
ed to  offer  a  solemn  "Te  Deum"  to  the  Giver  of  all 
good.  The  child  knelt  on  a  prie-dieu,  draped  in 
white,  in  the  middle  of  the  Sanctuary.  She  was 
dressed  in  plain  white,  and  crowned  with  a  veil,  and 
wreath  of   flowers.     She    appeared   totall)'    without 


ELISE.  243 

self-consciousness,  with  a  solemn  radiance  in  her 
face,  and  downcast  eyes  :  absorbed  in  prayer. 

After  dinner  the  artist  appeared,  and  was  greatly 
surprised  that  the  child  had  vanished  from  the  ward, 
and  must  be  sought  for,  in  order  to  see  him. 
He  gazed  at  her  in  amazement  and  then  said  to  the 
Superior,  "a  nervous  attack;  the  child  has  a  highly 
susceptible  temperament,  and  has  deceived  us  all. 
The  shock  of  seeing  her  father  has  made  her  all 
right  again." 

The  Superior  smiled,  and  was  silent,  and  the 
artist  continued :  "You  have  spoiled  my  little 
•Mater  Dolorosa.'  This  child  would  only  ruin  my 
picture  ;  the  likeness  of  the  first  is  gone,  and  I  must 
try  to  finish  without  it.  What  a  pity  I"  He  smil- 
ed ruefully  at  the  Superior.  "However,  I  would 
like  a  second  sitting  just  to  contrast  the  two  faces." 

"I  am  sorry  to  disappoint  you,"  said  the  Super- 
ior, "but  she  leaves  us  to-night,  her  father  cannot 
remain  longer,"  who  could  not  refrain  from  smiling 
at  the  artist's  passion,  so  prevailing  over  all  other 
sentiments. 

He  rose,  and  with  a  comical  smile,  took  Elise's 
hand  and  led  her  outside  the  ward.  When  the 
child  came  back  she  had  some  broad  gold  pieces  in 
her  hand  and  going  to  the  Superior  she  said,  shy- 
ly:  "He  says  that  this  is  all  mine,  and  that  I  have 
earned  it,  but  I'm  afraid  papa  may  not  like  it,"  she 
added  doubtfully. 


244  ELISE, 

"You  know  that  you  need  some  clothing,  dear," 
said  the  Superior  cheerfully,  "and  I  think  we  will 
look  on  this  as  sent  you  for  that  purpose.  Do  you 
think  it  will  tire  }'ou  too  much  to  go  out  with  Sister 
Joseph  and  Nancy  to  buy  some?" 

Elise  had  come  back  to  this  world  sufficiently  to 
be  delighted  with  the  idea,  and  so  spent  the  next 
few  hours  in  getting  the  necessary  clothing,  and 
buying  a  gift  for  each  special  friend  at  the  hospital, 
and  the  dear  ones  at  home.  Her  father  was  not  con- 
sulted in  the  matter,  the  Sisters  deciding  that  they 
might  rightfully  spare  him  what  would  cost  the 
proud  Southerner  so  much.  He  had  arranged  to 
take  the  night  train  to  New  York  and  so  Elise  bade 
a  tearful  "Good-bye"  with  grateful  thanks  to  the 
Sisters,  and  her  many  friends,  and  at  last  started 
for  the  end  of  her  destination. 

Her  father  was  both  touched  and  amused  to 
watch  the  many  opportunities  she  found  for  ministries 
of  mercy  and  charity ;  first,  it  was  a  child  who  had 
fallen  and  hurt  itself,  then,  an  animal,  then,  a  beggar, 
not  one  could  he  persuade  her  to  pass  without  stop- 
ping to  give  a  little  consolation,  or  a  few  cents  with 
which  she  seemed  to  have  provided  herself.  He  did 
not  interfere  but  allowed  her  her  own  way  in  silence. 
His  thoughts  were  occupied  over  the  home  to  which 
he  u'as  taking  her,  and  he  was  wondering  how  she 
would  bear  the  change.  When  she  was  at  last  in 
her  old  place  on  her   father's   knee   in    the   spacious 


EI.ISE  245 

Pullman  car,  she  gazed  a  little  while  on  the  land- 
scape through  which  they  were  speedint:^,  and  then 
turning  to  her  father  she  said  : 

"  Papa,  this  is  the  best  part  of  my  journey 
north." 

"You  have  not  told  me  about  it  yet,  Elise,"  said 
her  father. 

Then  Elise  began  from  the  time  that  they  had 
parted  at  the  boat  landing  at  Regalia,  and  told  her 
father  the  history  of  all  her  adventures  since,  and 
he,  hardly  believing  that  such  things  were  possible, 
held  his  breath  at  parts  of  her  recital,  and  gave  fer- 
vent thanks  to  Heaven  that  his  darling  had  escaped 
unscathed. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


NEGLECTED  GARDENS. 


When  M.  de  la  Roche  looked  for  a  home  for  his 
family,  in  New  York,  he  was  dismayed  to  see  what 
was  offered  him  within  a  price  which  was  at  all  in 
proportion  to  his  income.  It  was  impossible  to  find 
anything,  even  decent,  within  the  city  proper,  and 
at  the  expense  of  his  own  comfort,  he  decided  that 
he  must  take  the  long  ride  into  the  countr}',  twice  a 
day,  in  order  to  give  them  anything  of  the  comfort 
or  privac}'  of  a  home.  After  a  long  search,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  securing  the  lower  stor}'  of  what  had 
been  once  a  fine  mansion,  but  was  now  sinking  into 
ruin  for  want  of  repairs. 

The  owner  intended  to  put  up  a  regular  city  block, 
when  the  city  grew  high  enough  to  make  it  a  de- 
sirable residence,  and  was  now  glad  to  rent  it  re- 
spectably at  a  low  rent.  Ruinous  and  decayed  as 
the  old  manion  was,  it  had  fine  grounds  attached 
which  would  give  the  boys  liberty  to  run  without 
going  on  the  street.     The  upper  floor  was  occupied 


ELISE.  247 

by  a  Down  East  Yankee  and  his  wife,  who  would 
not  be  troubled  either  by  children  of  their  own,  or 
by  those  of  their  neighbor.  War,  in  consequence, 
was  soon  declared.  The  Jenkyns,  as  they  were 
called,  devoted  their  half  of  the  ground  to  raising 
fruit  and  vegetables  of  the  most  inviting  kind  for  the 
market,  and  our  little  boys,  living  all  day  without 
any  restraint,  frequently  invaded  their  neighbor's 
territory. 

The  Jenkyns  side  of  the  grounds  was  a  most 
startling  contrast  to  that  of  the  Southerners,  which 
was  left  to  grow  in  utter  neglect,  with  grass  and 
weeds  knee  deep.  The  interior  of  the  house 
offered  the  same  contrast.  No  one  of  the  Southerners 
had  any  idea  of  housekeeping  or  how  to  preserve 
order.  M.  de  la  Roche  engaged  an  old  woman  to 
come  daily,  but  it  was  little  she  did,  and  whenever 
she  appeared  Madame  took  refuge  on  the  balcony, 
with  her  novel. 

The  family  lived  on  canned  goods,  with  baker's 
bread,  pie  and  cake,  but  as  the  boys  ran  wild  all 
day  like  little  animals,  they  daily  gained  in  animal 
life  in  spite  of  their  meagre  diet,  and  as  they  gained 
physically  they  also  gained  in  sin.  No  wonder  the 
poor  father  looked  so  dispirited  and  broken-down 
as  to  bring  his  child  back  from  heaven.  As  they 
drew  nearer  home,  he  grew  sadder  and  more 
abstracted,  at  the  thought  of  to  what  he  was  carry- 
ing his  child. 


248  ELISE. 

The  afternoon  of  the  day  before  the  arrival  of 
Elise  and  her  father,  may  serve  as  a  specimen  of 
tlie  way  in  which  young  plants  will  grow  when  left 
to  themselves  untrained  and  uncultivated. 

It  was  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when 
Henri,  in  company  with  his  bosom  friend,  came  in 
from  a  game  of  ball,  tired  and  heated.  Henri  gave 
his  ball  and  bat  a  toss  on  the  lounge,  making  his 
mother  start  nervously,  and  looked  about  him  with  a 
discontented  air. 

"Oh  we're  so  tired  and  hot,  mamma,  may  we 
make  some  lemonade?" 

"Yes,  if  you  like,"  said  Madame  abstractedly 
without  lifting  her  eyes. 

"Well,  where  are  the  things?  I  wonder  if  there 
are  any  lemons,  ice  or  sugar  in  the  house  r" 

'T  am  sure  I  don't  know,  my  son,  go  without,  if 
you  can't  make  it  w^ithout  interrupting  me  so 
much." 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Henri,  opening  the  side 
board  door  and  holding  up  a  very  imin\'iting-look- 
ing  sugar  bowl.  "Those  little  rascals  have  emptied 
everything,  as  usual,  and  it's  too  hot  to  go  out  for 
more.     Hulloa  I  what's  this?" 

"Oh  !  yes,"  said  Madame,  languidly,  "that.telegram 
came  this  morning,  your  papa  is  coming  tomorrow, 
he  might  have  had  sufficient  consideration  to  have 
come  to-day,  if  he  had  remembered  my  unprotected 
position." 


ELISE.  249 

She  wiped  her  eyes,  but  was  prevented  from  more 
tears,  by  pierciiifr  shrieks  coming  in  the  back  win- 
dows from  the  garden.  They  all  ran  out  on  the 
balcony,  which  overlooked  the  garden,  and  saw  Mr. 
Jenkyns,  stern  and  determined,  standing  at  the  end 
of  his  chief  garden  walk,  with  his  legs  spread  wide 
apart  to  prevent  the  two  little  lads'  egress,  and 
flourishing  a  strap  in  his  hand. 

"I've  got  3'e  now,  yer  young  sarpints,"  shouted 
Mr.  Jenk}-ns,  "come  here  now,  and  git  your  desarts." 

"Henri  I  oh,  Henri  I"  shrieked  Madame  !  "save 
\'Our  little  brothers  from  that  cruel  man." 

"Nonsense,  mamma!"  said  Henri,  "he  won't  hurt 
them,  and  I  don't  wonder  that  he  don't  want  his 
garden  destro\'ed,  I  onh-  hope  he'll  lick  'em  well." 

"  You  unnatural  brother,"  sobbed  his  mother,  "  if 
you  are  afraid,  run  for  the  police." 

The  twins  were  a  subject  for  a  picture,  as  the  two 
hung  back  together,  at  the  end  of  the  path,  with 
feet,  hands,  and  faces  stained  with  fruit ;  bare- 
legged, and  ragged,  with  long  unkempt  hair,  look- 
ing so  exactly  alike,  that  it  was  impossible  to 
distinguish  one  from  the  other.  One  of  them  hugged 
a  little  black  kitten  to  his  breast,  which  looked  like  a 
veritable  witch's  cat,  perfectly  black,  .without  a 
single  white  hair,  and  each  hair  standing  in  a 
different  direction,  with  green  eyes,  which  glowed 
like  living  coals. 

There  was  a  pause,  neither  side  liking  to  lead  the 


250  ELISE. 

attack,  Mr.  Jenkyns  fearing  if  he  left  his  post  at 
the  end  of  the  path,  that  he  would  lose  his  prey,  and 
the  twins  uncertain  what  was  the  best  manner  of 
eluding  the  enemy. 

There  was  a  rapid  exchange  of  glances  between 
the  two,  a  little  nod,  and  then  the  foremost  one 
dropped  his  head,  and  made  a  rush  between  the 
legs  of  the  astonished  Mr.  Jenk3nis  knocking  him 
completely  down,  rapidly  followed  by  number  two, 
who  jumped  over  poor  Mr.  Jenkyns'  prostrate  form. 
They  then  flew  around  the  corner  of  the  house,  and 
disappeared.  Mr.  Jenkyns  gathered  himself  up, 
amid  the  shouts  and  laughter  of  the  two  older  lads, 
and  the  derisive  laugh  of  his  wife,  Jerusha,  who  had 
been  watching  the  battle  from  an  upper  window. 
Madame  did  not  smile,  but  with  her  head  high 
in  the  air,  disappeared  inside,  while  Mr.  Jenkyns, 
interiorly  resolving  to  be  even  with  them  yet,  went 
into  the  garden  to  repair  damages. 

"Come,  Hen,"  said  his  school  friend,  "let's  have 
a  swim." 

"All  right,"  said  Henri,  "come  on." 

There  was  a  brook  which  ran  down  the  hill  near 
the  "house,  and  emptied  itself  in  the  Hudson.  It  was 
a  never  ending  delight  to  the  lads,  and  M.  de  la 
Roche  had  encouraged  them  in  building  a  swiming 
bath  there,  to  keep  them  from  the  dangerous  river. 
They  had  dug  out  quite  a  deep  pool,  and  dammed 
up  the  brook  to  fill  it ;  then  they  built  a  sort  of  rough 


ELISE.  251 

shantee  over  it,  to  answer  the  purpose  of  a  bathing 
house  ;  sawing  out  two  square  holes,  near  the  roof, 
for  the  purpose  of  letting  in  light  and  air.  Henri 
had  affixed  a  padlock,  of  which  he  kept  the  key,  to 
the  door  of  the  house,  averring  that  it  was  too  deep 
for  the  twins,  and  that  they  would  get  drowned. 
This  caused  perpetual  rebellion  on  the  part  of  these 
young  men,  and  they  had  really  become  the  tor- 
ment of  everyone  about  them,  giving  obedience  to 
their  father  only,  of  whom  they  stood  in  some  awe. 

The  two  school  boys  were  having  a  grand  swim- 
ing  exercise,  when  the  window  over  them  was 
suddenly  darkened,  and  the  little  black  kitten  de- 
scended suddenly  on  Henri's  back,  sticking  her 
claws  deeply  in,  mewing  and  spitting  at  a  great  rate, 
and  then  leaping  off  into  the  pool,  she  swam  rapidly 
round,  and  finally  flew  off  out  of  the  building,  out 
the  opening  at  the  bottom. 

"  By  George  !  "  said  Henri  excitedh',  rubbing  his 
scratches,  "those  horrid  little  rats;  let  them  look 
out  for  themselves,  they  shall  smart  for  this." 

"I  never  knew  before  that  cats  could  swim  so,  did 
you,  Henri?"  said  the  friend,  recovering  himself  with 
great  difficulty  from  the  shock,  and  trying  to  look 
sober. 

"  No,"  said  Henri,  "  I  wonder  they  don't  go  in 
swimming  oftener,  but  I  hope  they  don't  take  my 
back  to  dive  from." 

The  boys  decided  they  had  better  leaxe,  before  a 


252  ELISE. 

worse  thing  came  through  the  window.  They 
dressed  themselves,  and  went  up  again  to  the  house. 

''Come  up  to  my  room,"  said  Henri,  "I've  got 
the  stunningest  red  necktie  }-ou  e\'er  saw,  that  I 
want  to  show  you." 

They  were  ascending  the  steps  of  tlie  back  piazza, 
.as  he  spoke. 

'He  wears  it  \\hcn  Miss  PoUard  comes,"  sang  out 
a  high  nasal  tone  over  their  heads.  They  looked  up 
and  there  curled  up  on  the  rafters  of  the  open  roof, 
were  the  twins,  and  the  inevitable  Mack  kitten  grin- 
ning down  upon  them. 

"Never  you  mind,  }-oung  men,  )-ou  and  I  will 
settle  scores  before  }-ou  sleep  to-night,"  said  Henri 
■vindictively. 

The  twins  were  remarkabl}-  .silent,  and  Henri  led 
tthe  way  to  his  room.  When  he  opened  his  door  the 
iboys  both  started  back  for  an  instant,  in  dismay. 
The  room  had  been  made  very  dark.  A  kerosene 
lamp  lighted  and  placed  on  the  i\oor  shed  a  dim 
light  upon  an  awful  image.  It  was  dressed  chiefly 
in  white,  with  outstretched  arms  and  reached  nearl}' 
to  the  ceiling. 

After  the  first  start,  Henri  ran  in,  threw  open  the 
-shutters,  and  drew  up  the  shades,  letting  out  the 
stifling  odor  of  the  kerosene,  and  in,  the  light  and 
air. 

The  figure  was  formed  of  Henri's  sheets  and 
pillows,  pinned   and  tied  on   umbrellas   and   brooms 


ELISE.  253 

in  every  imaginable  manner  and,  alas,  decked  out  with 
all  Henri's  most  treasured  articles  of  toilette.  He 
had  reached  the  age  now  ^\•hen  these  things  were 
matters  of  very  great  importance  in  his  eves,  and 
was  over  careful  and  orderh'  in  his  person.  It 
really  was,  then,  a  great  trial  to  the  lad,  and  added 
another  to  the  long  score  he  was  resolving  to  settle 
with  his  little  brothers.  His  friend  sympathized 
with  him  as  they  replaced  the  things  and  put  the 
room  in  order,  they  discussed  earnestly  what  should 
be  done  to  reduce  these  wild  Indians  to  order. 

"There's  no  use  in  telling,  for  there's  nobod}'  who 
can  manage  them,  but  father,  and  I  don't  want  to 
bother  him,  and  besides  it's  a  beastly  mean  thing  to 
do,  and  it's  a  shame  if  I  can't  manage  those  little 
toads  myself." 

The  room  now  straightened,  Henri  wished  to 
show  his  friend  his  most  valued  treasure,  a  histor}- 
of  the  war,  which  he  was  compiling  with  the 
assistance,  and  under  the  direction  of  his  friend.  Dr. 
Mays.  They  went  into  the  famih'  living  room,  and 
Henri  drew  the  neat  volume  from  his  father's  desk, 
and  opened  it  with  some  pride.  It  was  of  white 
unruled  paper  and  was  written  in  Henri's  neatest 
hand,  not  a  blot  or  erasure  in  it. 

"You  see,"  said  Henri,  as  he  unfolded  it  to  his 
friend's  admiring  gaze,  "the  little  rascals  don't  dare  to 
touch  father's  desk  and  it's  the  only  place  in  New 
York  Cit\-,  where  I  could  keep  it  safe  from  them.'* 


254  ELISE. 

There  was  a  stifled  giggle  from  the  balcony  ;  their 
the  black  kitten  shot  once  more  through  the  air,  and 
descended  on  the  desk  before  them,  spitting,  with 
her  fur  distended  and  tail  high  in  the  air:  before 
the  boys  could  prevent  it.  she  had  stuck  her  paw  in 
the  ink  bottle,  and  then  on  the  beautiful  fair  page  of 
the  history,  as  she  flew  across  the  desk  and  out  the. 
window. 

Poor  Henri,  he  was  too  full  of  grief  to  sa)'  a  word,, 
and  choked  with  repressed  tears,  he  gazed  on  the 
inky  foot  tracks  which  had  ruined  so  many  hours  of 
patient   work. 

'•It's  too  bad.  Hen  ;  indeed  it's  too  bad,"  said  his- 
friend,  "but  I  think  }'ou  could  cut  out  these  two  pages 
so  it  would  never  show.  1  never  knew  such  tricky 
little  fellows." 

"I  believe  that's  a  real  witch  cat.  I  never  knew  the 
like  of  her,"  said  Henri,  recovering  himself. 

"It's  a  beautiful  book,"  said  his  friend.  "I  never 
saw  a  nicer  one.  Do  you  think  you  could  help  me 
make  one?" 

"Oh  yes!"  said  Henri,  pleased  at  his  friend's 
praises,  "it's  eas}^  enough,  I'll  show  you  anytime." 

"All  right,  then,  I'll  ask  father  about  it.  I  must 
go  now,  but  I  really  think  somebody  ought  to  lick 
those  boys." 

"And  somebody  will,"  said  Henri  griml}'. 

After  his  friend  had  gone,  he  carefully  dried  the 
book  with  a  blotter,  closed  it,  and  put  it  back  in  the 


ELISE.  255 

desk.  He  then  walked  out  on  the  balcony,  with 
a  determined  air  and  step  quite  dififerent  from' 
his  usual  good-natured,  eas3'-going  manner,  and 
looked  up  and  down  the  yard  :  there  was  no  one  in 
sight,  and  he  was  about  turning  to  go  in,  when  he 
heard,  over  his  head,  another  repressed  "  he  I  he  I 
he  I  "  and  looking  up,  he  saw  the  lads  still  on  the 
rafters  overhead. 

"Comeout  of  that,  now,"  said  Henri,  sharply,  "it's 
time  you  and  I  had  a  reckoning."' 

"  'Come  here  little  ducklings,  come  here  and  be  killed, 
For  you  must  be  stuffed,  and  mv  customers  filled.'  " 

sang  one  of  the  little  fellows  saucily. 

"Very  well,"  said  Henri,  "take  your  own  time 
about  it,"  and  he  walked  into  the  room  and  came 
out  again,  with  a  chair  and  book,  and  seating  him- 
self, began  to  read. 

This  was  a  turn  of  affairs  of  which  the  twins  did 
not  approve.  Nearly  an  hour  went  by,  and  Henri 
showed  no  sign  of  relenting. 

"I  say.  Hen,"  said  a  voice  overhead,  "let  us  oft" 
this  time,  and  we'll  tell  )-ou  where  Dougherty  hides 
the  gingerbread." 

No  response. 

Mrs.  Dougherty  appeared,  and  announced  that 
supper  was  ready,  and  then  disappeared  again,  but 
Henri  never  stirred. 

"I  say,  Tom,"  said  one  little  lad  to  the  other,  "  did 


256  ELISE. 

you  hear  what  that  Pollard  girl  said  about  Hen  last 
time  she  came  up  to  see  the  Jenk3'ns?" 

"No,  what  was  it?"  said  he. 

Tliere  was  much  whispering  and  giggling  between 
the  two,  and  Henri  was  observed  to  prick  up  his 
ears  slightly. 

"I  say,  Hen,  let  us  off  just  this  time.  Elise  and 
papa  are  coming  tomorrow,  and  we  are  going  out 
to-night  to  get  our  hair  cut,  and  tomorrow  we'll 
begin  to  go  to  school,  and  be  good  and  won't  plague 
you  any  more,  'honest  Injun,'  and  we'll  tell  \'ou  what 
Miss  Pollard  said,  besides." 

"Well,"  said  the  good-natured  elder  brother,  "but 
remember  this  is  the  last  time.  The  very  next  trick 
you  pla}'  on  any  body,  you  shall  smart  for  it.  What 
did  Miss  Pollard  say  ?"  he  asked  rather  sheepishh', 
as  the  twins  slid  past  him  through  the  long  French 
window. 

"She  said  you  were  nothing  but  a  Blaisted 
Britisher,  with  nigger  blood  in  }'our  veins,"  laughed 
the  bo}^ 

"She  never  said   it,"  said  Henri  striding  for\\ard, 
-and  catching  the  little  brother  by  the  ear. 

"Oh,  boys,"  groaned  Madame,  "you  arc  so  noisy, 
and  m\^  head  aches  so  badly." 

"Here,"  shrieked  the  lad,  "let  me  alone,  you 
promised  you  know." 

"Tell  me  the  truth  then."  said  Henri. 

"Let  mc  alone,  and  I  will." 


ELISE.  257 

Henri  dropped  the  ear,  and  the  lad  taking  hold  of 
the  sides  of  his  pants  lifted  them,  as  though  they 
were  skirts,  and  walked  across  the  room  saying  in  a 
most  affected  tone  and  manner  : 

"  What  a  distinguished  air  Mr.  Rocks  has  orot, 
Jerushy." 

There  was  a  general  laugh,  in  which  even  the 
poor  mother  joined,  but  added  : 

"What  dirty  boys,  can't  you  wash  yourselves,  be- 
fore coming  to  the  table?" 

The  boys  were  about  to  seat  themselves,  coolly, 
paying  no  attention  to  her:  but  Henri  said  threaten- 
ingly : 

"Go,  and  make  yourselves  decent,  if  you  can." 

"We're  no  dudes  like  you,"  said  Tom. 

They  obeyed  for  once,  and  soon  came  with  a 
small  circle  around  their  mouths  clean,  seated  them- 
selves at  the  table,  and  peace  was  restored. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE    HOME. 

M.  DE  LA  Roche  and  Elise  reached  Jersey  City 
1n  the  earl}^  morning.  EHse  was  delighted  at  the 
life  and  glitter  of  the  beautiful  New  York  Bay  and 
her  natural 'expressions  of  delight  drew  many  ad- 
miring eyes  on  the  pretty  child.  The  freshness  of 
the  salty  breeze  blowing  off  the  ocean  was  indeed 
grateful,  after  the  stuffy  sleeping  cars,  and  both  were 
sorry  to  leave  the  boat  for  the  close  hot  city  the 
smell  of  which  was  any  thing  but  grateful  to  the 
senses.  When  they  reached  the  other  side  of  the 
ferry  the}^  took  the  Eighth  Avenue  horse  car  for  up- 
town. There  was  no  Elevated  Road  in  those  days 
audit  was  more  than  an  hour's  ride  to  One  Hundredth 
Street  then. 

"Doesn't  it  seem  like  another  world,  papa?"  said 
Elise,  as  she  looked,  with  repugnance,  around  the 
dirty  car. 

The  father  smiled  sadl)',  as  he  thought  how  much 
greater  a  change  the  child  might  find  in  the  home, 
to  which   he   was  taking   her.     As   they  drew   near 


ELISE.  259 

the  end  of  their  journey,  he  turned  to  Elise,  with  a 
look  of  anxiety,  hesitated  a  little,  and  then  said  : 

"  My  daughter  you  know, " 

"Yes,  papa,  I  know,"  said  Elise  interrupting  him, 
and  the  mute  pressure  of  the  little  hand  on  his  was 
sufficient;  no  more  need  be  said. 

When  they  reached  the  house,  neglect  was  visible 
everywhere.  The  front  gate  was  off  its  hinges,  the 
path  up  to  the  front  door,  which  wound  through  the 
shrubbery  and  under  the  trees  had  once  been  beau- 
tiful but  was  now  thick  with  weeds,  the  broad 
portico  in  front  of  the  house  was  strewn  with  the 
boys'  play  things  and  various  portions  of  their  ward- 
robe. In  the  front  hall  were  still  to  be  seen  the 
packing  cases  and  straw  in  which  various  purchases 
had  arrived.  It  was  a  grand,  broad  hall,  with  tiled 
floor,  running  directly  through  the  house,  with 
large  glass-  doors  at  both  ends.  A  winding  stair- 
case of  carved  mahogany,  which  should  have  been 
polished,  but  was  dull  with  scrubbing,  led  to  the 
floor  above. 

A  tall,  lanky  woman  dressed  in  the  plainest  and 
scantiest  of  bright  calico  dresses,  protected  by  a 
long  linen  working  apron,  was  scrubbing  down 
these  stairs,  with  a  scrubbing  brush,  soap,  and  hot 
water.  She  stopped  at  seeing  M.  de  la  Roche  and 
Elise  enter,  and  rose  to  her  feet.  Elise  noticed  as  she 
came  forward  to  greet  them  how  spotlessly  clean 
she  looked. 


26o  KLISE. 

"■Mornin',  Mr.  Rocks,"  she  said,  in  very  positive 
tones,  "You're  heartily  welcome  I'm  sure.  We 
rather  expected  you  yesterday.  Mrs.  Rocks  she 
fretted  considerbul  until  night,  and  then  she  got  so  all 
tired  mad  with  him,  that  it  did  her  lots  of  good.  Is 
this  your  little  gal  you  brought  along  with  )-er?  Wal 
aint  she  as  pretty  as  a  picter?" 

"What  was  the  matter,"  said  M.  dc  la  Roche, 
sharply,  trying  to  speak  pleasantly  and  not  show  his 
annoyance. 

"Wal  yer  see  them  little  fellers  of  \-ourn,  they  got 
into  his  garden  patch,  and  they  trampled  down  the 
cowcumber  vines  considerbul,  an'  pulled  off  a  lot  of 
green  pears,  that  he  sot  out  a  store  by,  and  they 
wa'nt  near  ready  for  pullin"  neither.  So  he  got  out 
a  strap  to  hit  'em  a  little  an'  scare  'em  but  he 
wouldn't  hurt  'em  none,  not  fer  all  creation,  an'  ef 
you'll  believe  it  them  little  fellers  floored  him,  they 
are  the  cutest.  Miss  Rocks  came  prett}'  nigh  gittin' 
the  high  strikes  and  tried  to  send  Henri  off  for  the 
perlice  but  there  the  boy  has  too  much  sense  for 
that.  I  prevailed  on  her  to  wait  fer  you  to  settle 
it,  an'  I  guess  she  feels  better  to-day.  I  sent  her  a 
basket  of  garden  sass,  but  there,  she  could  no  more 
cook  it  than  a  baby,  and  Miss  Dougherty's  too  lazy. 
Now  this  little  lady  looks  as  though  she  would 
make  a  right  smart  housekeeper,  hey  ! " 

"I  want  to  learn,"  said  Klise,  looking  earnestly. 
"Will  you  teach  me?" 


ELISE.  261 

"Guess  I  will,  indeed,  and  you'll  soon  beat  me  all 
holler.  Ain't  she  the  cute  lady?"  said  Airs. 
Jehkyns,  looking  at  her  admiringly.  "She'll  soon 
show  vou  a  different  home,  sir,  but  them  little  young- 
sters of  yourn,  if  the  devil  don't  ketch  them,  we  might 
as  good  hev  no  devil  at  all.  Now  this  is  one  of  the 
right  sort,  without  a  thread  of  shiftlessness  in  her." 
Here  the  sharp  eves  scanned  Elise  approvingly. 

M.  de  la  Roche  bowed  rather  stiffly  and  moved 
on.  This  woman  was  a  perpetual  thorn  in  his  side, 
constantly  reminding  him  of  his  loss  of  position. 
Was  it  not  after  all  a  Quixotic  idea?  Was  it  worth 
while,  he  sometimes  asked  himself,  bitterly,  to  suf- 
fer so  much  for  his  principles,  and  above  all  to 
bring  such  suffering  on  his  family,  and,  as  it  looked 
now,  the  loss  of  his  boys'  souls.  They  were  grow- 
ing, like  rank  weeds,  stronger  in  evil  dav  b}-  dav. 
Had  God  forgotten  that  it  was  all  for  Him  that  he 
had  given  up  his  home  and  fled  into  this  strange 
land  ? 

He  drew  Elise  along  the  hall  with  a  clouded  face, 
and  opened  a  door  leading  from  the  hall  into  what 
had  once  been  the  drawing-room  of  the  old  mansion. 
Elise  sprang  in  to  greet  the  dear  ones  and  then  paused 
and  looked  round  her  with  dismay.  Dirt  and 
disorder  reigned  supreme.  Who  was  that  sitting  in 
a  low  chair  near  the  front  window  so  absorbed  in 
her  books  that  she  heard  nothing  at  all  of  what  was 
going  on  around  her?     Could  that  untid}-,  neglected 


202  ELISE. 

little  woman  with  soiled,  ragged  dress  and  unkempt 
hair  be  the  mother  of  whom  they  were  so  proud? 
Could  two  short  months  ha\e  made  such  a  change? 
She  looked  an  instant  in  dismay,  and  then  flew 
to  clasp  her  arms  about  her  mother's  neck,  and  gave 
her  a  hearty  hug  and  kiss. 

The  mother  roused  herself  with  some  difficulty, 
looked  around  bewildered  and  confused,  as  she 
jumped  hastily  up,  saying  : 

"Why,  Elise,  is  this  you  at  last?  How  rough  you 
are,  child.  Where  have  you  been  all  this  time?  Oh, 
Henri  I  how  could  you  stay  away  so  long  and  lea\e 
us  alone?  Elise  could  surely  have  finished  her 
journc}'  without  taking  )'ou  away,  and  leaving  us  at 
the  mercy  of  those  dreadful  creatures." 

Here  she  burst  into  tears,  and  sobbed  violently, 
as  she  added  between  her  sobs,  "  Our  lives  have 
been  in  constant  danger  and  I  have  nearly  died  from 
fear.  What  would  my  poor  parents  say  if  they 
knew  to  what  I  and  my  children  have  been  brought? 
Yes ;  they  are  whipped  like  slaves  by  these  coward- 
ly Yankees." 

She  petulantly  pushed  off  "Elise,  who  strove 
to  comfort  her,  and  clung,  sobbing,  to  her 
husband.  The  poor  child,  thus  repulsed,  walked 
to  the  back  of  the  room  to  hide  her  grief,  and 
looked  out  the  window  with  a  swelling  heart,  but 
her  feelings  were  instantly  changed  to  a  joyful  sur- 
prise at  the  sight  which  was  s[)read  out  before  her, 


ELISE.  263 

and  her  exclamations  of  delight  drew  her  parents  to 
her  side. 

There  were  two  long  double  French  windows  at 
that  side  of  the  room,  which  led  out  on  a  balcony  at 
the  back  of  the  house,  and  the  three  passed  out 
through  one,  on  the  balcony.  There  before  them 
rolled  the  broad,  noble  Hudson,  grand  in  its  calm, 
peaceful  repose.  In  the  distance  as  far  up  as  they 
could  see,  were  the  Palisades,  grim  and  fortress  like. 
The  river  was  dotted  here  and  there  with  the  white 
sails  of  \'achts  and  fishing  boats.  The  view  extend- 
ed up  the  river  some  three  or  four  miles,  until  lost 
in  distant  haze.  "Oh,  how  beautiful  !  how  beauti- 
ful !"'  exclaimed  Elise  clasping  her  hands  in  ecstasy. 
An  excursion  steamer  with  a  band  playing  just  then 
swept  by  reminding  Elise  forcibly  of  that  other  scene 
not  long  ago,  on  the  bosom  of  that  yet  broader  river 
in  the  sunny  south.  Turning  to  her  mother  she  put 
her  arm  genth'  around  her  as  she  told  her  the  story 
of  poor  Jacques,  both  were  weeping,  but  with  gentle 
tears,  before  she  had  finished,  and  there  was  formed 
a  new  tie  between  them ;  a  bond  of  sympathy 
that  had  never  existed  before. 

"I  am  a  selfish  wife  and  mother,  Henri,  I  know," 
said  the  poor  little  woman,  "  and  I  have  never  been 
taught  how  to  do  any  better,  but  Elise  has  suddenly 
grown  from  a  child  to  a  woman,  and  is  going  to  be 
our  great  comfort,  I  am  sure." 

"  She    has  certainly    grown  many   years    in    two 


264  ELISE. 

months,"  said  her  father  gazing  at  her  fondly,  "and 
is  going  to  be  your  right  hand  in  defence,  dear, 
against  the  wiles  of  the  enem}-." 

"Yen  need  not  laugh  at  me  Henri,"  said  his  wife, 
with  a  sigh,  "I'm  sure  I  need  it,"  but  she  was  inter- 
rupted by  a  loud  whoop  as  the  three  boys  came  tear- 
ing up  the  steps  to  see  their  sister ;  there  were  great 
rejoicings  and  embracings  at  seeing  the  travellers, 
above  all  the  dear  sister  whom  they  had  mourned 
as  dead.  The  father  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart 
to  call  his  naughty  boys  to  account,  on  his  first 
return  home,  for  their  delinquencies  but  hoped  for 
much,  through  their  sister's  influence. 

The  express  man  arrived  just  then  with  Elise's 
trunk,  and  there  was  another  joyous  excitement  in 
opening  it,  and  giving  out  presents.  When  these 
were  distributed  and  duly  admired,  Elise  caused  an 
immense  sensation  by  taking  out  a  large  working 
apron  and  enveloping  herself  in  it,  with  an  air  of 
dignified  authority.  She  began  to  do  her  best  to 
get  the  place  in  some  kind  of  order  and  to  help  Mrs. 
Dougherty  to  get  the  dinner.  'The  boys  tried  to 
help,  and  Mrs.  Dougherty  was  inspired  to  do  her 
best.  It  was,  after  all,  a  poor  attempt,  but  the  rooms 
soon  began  to  wear  a  different  aspect,  and  the  boys 
were  immensely  interested. 

That  evening,  after  she  had  coaxed  the  twins  to 
bed  with  the  promise  of  a  splendid  story,  she  stole 
out  on  the  balcony  to  find   her  father.      It  was    a 


ELISE.  265 

lovely  moonlight  night,  and  M.  de  la  Roche  was 
enjoying  the  luxury  of  the  one  cigar  he  allowed 
himself  daily. 

His  wife  and  Henri  were  at  their  books  inside, 
when  he  felt  a  little  arm  steal  around  his  neck.  He 
turned  and  drew  his  little  daughter  down  on  his  knee 
and  they  sat  some  time  gazing  at  the  fair  scene 
before  them  in  silence.  Finally  Elise  said  with 
some  little  effort: 

"Papa,  I  told  our  dear  Lord  that  morning  of  my 
Mass,  at  the  hospital,  that  if  He  would  cure  me,  and 
make  my  life  a  comfort  and  blessing  to  you,  that  I 
would  give  my  life  to  His  service  as  long  as  I  lived  : 
for  you  know,  papa,  that  as  it  was  given  back  to  me 
I  was  bound  to  do  something  in  return,  I  mean  even 
more  than  ordinary,  eh?" 

"Yes,  daughter,  what  will  you  do  for  Him?" 

"Well,  papa,  one  day  when  Sister  Genevieve  was 
giving  us  a  Catechism  lesson,  not  to  me,  but  to  the 
children  who  were  up,  I  was  feeling  too  ill  to  listen, 
until  she  began  telling  them  a  story,  and  then  I 
listened  to  every  word.      She  said  : 

"  '  Once  upon  a  time,  there  was  a  Sister  of 
Charity,  who  lived  in  New  York.  She  was  young  and 
very  happy,  her  work  was  to  visit  among  the  poor 
and  sick  and  try  to  relieve  their  wants.  The  Sister 
was  very  happy  because  she  was  so  good.  She 
thought  her  life  could  hardly  be  happier  in  Heaven, 
except  for  the  suffering  she  saw  around  her.     Well, 


266  ELISE. 

one  day  the  Sister-Servant  sent  for  her  to  come  to 
her  room.  She  went  and  found  the  Sister-Servant 
talking  with  the  Chaphiin.  When  this  little  Sister 
came  in,  the  Sister-Ser\'ant  turned  to  her,  and  said  : 
'  Sister,  you  remember  hoA\  nnich  love  our  founder 
St.  Vincent  de  Paul,  had  for  the  little  foundlings? 
Now  we  want  you  to  begin  a  Foundling  Asylum.' 

"You  know,  papa,  a  foundling  is  a  little  baby 
wdiom  its  mother  does  not  love  or  care  for." 

"This  little  Sister  thought  that  the  Sister-Servant 
had  gone  crazy,  and  she  said  : 

"  'But  my  Sister,  I  have  no  money,  and  no  abil- 
ity to  begin  the  work."" 

"  'That  is  true,'  "  said  the  Sister-Servant,  "  'but 
if  the  work  is  God's,  He  will  furnish  both  the  money 
and  the  abilities.' 

"So  they  went  to  work  in  f^iith,  and  the  little 
Sister  told  our  dear  Lord  ;  if  He  would  be  pleased 
to  bless  and  prosper  the  work,  that  she  would  never 
refuse  anyone  who  asked  charity  of  her,  and  she 
never  has.  Now,  many  thousands  of  souls  look  to 
her  for  aid,  and  thousands  have  had  the  grace  of 
baptism,  who  could  not  have  had  it,  but  for  the 
Asylum." 

"I  thought,  papa,  that  was  a  beautiful  promise  to 
the  dear  Lord,  Whose  dying  words  were:  'Love  one 
another,'  so  I  made  it  mine,  and  God  has  accepted 
it,  papa,  for  you  see  He  has  cured  me." 

"  May   He  bless  you  dear  and   give  you   grace  to 


ELISE.  267 

keep  it  faithfull}'.     You  will  have  plenty  of  calls  for 
it,"  he  said  with  a  sigh. 

"Guess  yer  haint  made  no  cal'lations  fer  }^er  little 
gal  to  sleep,  hev  }'er?"  said  a  shrill  voice  behind 
them. 

The  father  started,  aud  looked  at  Elise  question- 
ingl}'. 

'  "jNI}-  child,"  he  said,  "I  verily  believe  there  is  not 
a  bed  for  3'ou  in  the  house." 

Oh,  never  mind,  papa,"  said  Elise,  "I  can  find  a 
phice,  I  can  sleep  anywhere."' 

"Now  there's  my  hall  bedroom,  she  kin  hev  it 
just  as  well  as  not.  I'd  jist  love  to  hev  her  there,  till 
you  kin  tix  a  place  fer  her,  but  'taint  no  ways  safeto 
allow  her  out  doors  in  the  night  air,  she's  sure  to 
kitch  the  fever.  I  tell  him  I  won't  allow  him  to  sit 
out  after  the  sun  goes  down,  noways  and  nohow." 

So  it  was  arranged.  Mrs.  Jenkyns  and  Elise  soon 
became  firm  friends,  and  the  child  with  a  will  to  do 
it,  and  so  good  a  teacher,  became  a  famous  house- 
keeper. She  had,  of  course,  times  of  discouragement, 
but  she  kept  on  steadily,  nexer  failing  in  her  resolu- 
tion. 

In  this  she  was  greatly  helped  by  her  firm  friend 
and  confessor.  Father  Gre}\  When  the  time  came 
that  she  could  once  more  return  to  Regalia,  she  was 
not  sorr}"  for  the  trials  she  had  gone  through  for  she 
knew  they  had  formed  and  made  her  a  "  Tool  meet 
for  the  Master's  use." 


WM 


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RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 

Wilmer 
892 


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